CHAPTER XV.

Francesca's funeral, and her subsequent canonization

II. BLESSED LUCY OF NARNI

III. DOMINICA OF PARADISO

IV. ANNE DE MONTMORENCY, THE SOLITARY OF THE PYRENEES

(Illustration) ST. FRANCES OF ROME

CHAPTER I.

GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE SAINT'S LIFE--HER CHILDHOOD AND EARLY PIETY.

(Illustration)

There have been saints whose histories strike us as particularly

beautiful, not only as possessing the beauty which always belongs

to sanctity, whether exhibited in an aged servant of God, who for

threescore years and more has borne the heat and burden of the day, or

in the youth who has offered up the morning of his life to His Maker,

and yielded it into His hands before twenty summers have passed over

his head; whether in a warrior king like St. Louis, or a beggar like

Benedict Labré, or a royal lady like St. Elizabeth of Hungary; but also

as uniting--in the circumstances of their lives, in the places they

inhabited, and the epochs when they appeared in the world, much that

is in itself poetical and interesting, and calculated to attract the

attention of the historian and the man of letters, as well as of the

theologian and the devout. In this class of saints may well be included

Francesca Romana, the foundress of the religious order of the Oblates

of Tor di Specchi. She was the model of young girls, the example of a

devout matron, and finally a widow, according to the very pattern drawn

by St. Paul; she was beautiful, courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly

born, and delicately brought up: Rome was the place of her birth, and

the scene of her labours; her home was in the centre of the great

city, in the heart of the Trastevere; her life was full of trials

and hair-breadth escapes, and strange reverses; her hidden life was

marvellous in the extreme: visions of terror and of beauty followed her

all her days; favours such as were never granted to any other saint were

vouchsafed to her; the world of spirits was continually thrown open to

her sight; and yet, in her daily conduct, her character and her ways,

minute details of which have reached us, there is a simplicity as well

as a deep humility, awful in one so highly gifted, touching in one so

highly favoured.

Troubled and wild were the times she lived in; perhaps if one had to

point out a period in which a Catholic Christian would rather not have

had his lot cast,--one in which there was most to try his faith and

wound his feelings, he would name the end of the fourteenth century, and

the beginning of the fifteenth. War was raging all over Europe; Italy

was torn by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the Guelphs and

the Ghibellines. So savage was the spirit with which their conflicts

were carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to overspread

that fair land, and the Church itself was afflicted not only by the

outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality, though for a while

they may appear to cripple its action, but by trials of a far deeper and

more painful nature. Heresy had torn from her arms a great number of her

children, and repeated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance

and even in intention, remained faithful to the Holy See. The successors

of St. Peter had removed the seat of their residence to Avignon, and the

Eternal City presented the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which

daily and hourly conflicts were occurring. The Colonnas, the Orsinis,

the Savellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged the

streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in the flower of

their age; strangers were also continually invading the heritage of the

Church, and desecrated Rome with massacres and outrages scarcely less

deplorable than those of the Huns and the Vandals. In the capital of the

Christian world, ruins of recent date lay side by side with the relics

of past ages; the churches were sacked, burned, and destroyed; the

solitary and indestructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully

erect amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom; and the eyes of the

people of Rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary power,

which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity and peace, and whose

removal the signal of war and of misery.

It was at that time, during the Pontificate of Urban VI., in the year

1384, that Francesca was born at Rome; that "she rose as a star in a

dark night," according to the expression of the most ancient of her

biographers. Her father's name was Paul Bussa; her mother's Jacobella

de' Roffredeschi; they were both of noble and even illustrious descent,

and closely allied to the Orsinis, the Savellis, and the Mellinis. On

the day of her birth she was carried to the church of Santa Agnese, in

the Piazza Navona, and there baptised. Little could the worshippers who

may have been praying there that day for a blessing on their bereaved

and distracted city, have guessed in what form that blessing was

bestowed, and that that little babe, a few hours old, was to prove a

most powerful instrument in the hands of God for the extinction of

schism, the revival of piety, and the return of peace.

From her infancy, Francesca was not like other children. Her mother,

when she held her in her arms or hushed her to sleep on her knee, had

always an involuntary feeling of reverence for her little daughter; it

was as if an angel of God, not an earthly child, had been lent her; a

heavenly expression shone in her eyes, and the calm serenity of her

infant features struck all who approached her with admiration. Francesca

learned to read at the same time that she began to speak; the first

words she was taught to utter were the sacred names of Jesus and Mary;

at her mother's knee she lisped the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin,

and during the whole course of her life she never omitted that practice.

At two or three years old she had the sense and intelligence of a

grown-up person; an extraordinary piety revealed itself in all her words

and actions. She never played like other children; but when left to

herself would often retire into silent corners of her father's palace,

and kneeling down, join her little hands in prayer; and lifting up her

infant heart to God, would read a devout book, or repeat hymns to the

Blessed Virgin, her own dear mother as she used to call her. Silence

appeared to be the delight of this young child--the deepest reserve and

modesty an instinct with her. At the age of six years the practices of

the saints were already familiar to her. She had left off eating

meat, eggs, or sweets of any description, and lived on plainly boiled

vegetables and bread. The necessity of eating at all seemed irksome to

her, and she never drank any thing but pure water. Then also had begun

her unwearied study of the lives of holy women, and especially of the

virgin martyrs who have shed their blood for the love of Jesus Christ.

The Sacrament of Confirmation, which she received at that time in the

church of Santa Agnese, the same in which she had been baptised, filled

her with ardour to show her love for her Lord by every imaginable means,

even those the most painful to the flesh.

Her mother was a very devout person, and in the habit of visiting every

day some of the churches, especially those where indulgences were to

be gained, and she also frequented the stations with affectionate

assiduity. For in that troubled epoch, as in the earliest times of the

Church, as now, as always, on certain days, in certain places, the

relics of apostles, of martyrs, and of confessors were exhibited to the

faithful, often on the very spot where they had finished their course

with joy, having kept their faith and won their crown. The devotion of

"the stations," as it is performed in Rome, is one of the most touching

links with the past that it is possible to conceive. To pass along the

street, so often trod by holy feet in former and in latter days, and

seek the church appointed for that day's station; to approach some

time-worn basilica, or ancient sanctuary, without the city walls may be,

and pausing on the threshold, give one look at the glorious works of

Almighty God in the natural world,--at the wide Campagna, that land-sea,

so beautiful in its broad expanse and its desolate grandeur, at the

purple hills with their golden lights and their deep-blue shadows, and

the arched sky telling so vividly the glory of its Maker; and then

slowly lifting the heavy curtain that stands between that vision of

earthly beauty, and the shrine where countless generations have come

to worship,--to tread under feet the green boughs, the sweet-smelling

leaves, the scattered flowers, that morning strewn upon the uneven,

time-trod, time-honoured pavement; bowing in adoration before the Lord

in His tabernacle, to thank Him for the wonders that He has worked in

His saints,--for the beauty of the world of grace, of which that of the

visible world is but the type and the shadow; and then move from one

shrine to the other, wherever the lights upon the altars point the way,

and invoke the assistance, the prayers of the saints whose relics are

there displayed;--all this is one of those rare enjoyments which at once

feed the soul and awake the imagination, and which the devout Christian

can find in no place but Rome.

It was these "stations" that Francesca's mother frequented, and took her

little daughter with her. Sometimes she went to some church in the heart

of the city; sometimes to some lonely shrine without the walls. Then,

as now, the beggars (so we find it mentioned later in the life of the

Saint) congregated at the doors, and clamoured for alms. Then, as now,

the lights burned upon the altars, and the sweet smell of fragrant

and crushed leaves perfumed the air. During sermons the little girl's

attention never wandered; and on her return home she was wont to repeat

what she had heard with unction and delight.

Her mother's favourite church was that of Santa Maria Nuova; in our day

more frequently called that of San Francesca Romana. It stands in the

Toro Romano, close to the ruins of the ancient Temple of Peace. It was

served at that time by the Benedictine monks of Mount Olivet; and to

one of them, Don Antonio di Monte Savello, Jacobella de' Roffredeschi

intrusted the spiritual direction of her daughter. He was a man of great

learning and piety, and continued her director for five and thirty

years. Every Wednesday the little maiden came to him for confession. She

consulted him about her occupations, her religious exercises, and

her studies, and exactly obeyed his most minute directions, even in

indifferent things. Often she tried for his permission to practise

greater austerities; and such was her fervour, and the plain indications

of God's designs upon her, that he occasionally allowed her to perform

penances which might have been considered in ordinary cases too severe

for her tender age. At other times he forbade them altogether; and she

submitted cheerfully to his commands, without a word of remonstrance or

complaint, and resumed them again at his desire, with the equanimity

of one who well knew that the spirit of perfect obedience is more

acceptable to God than any works of devotion.

"A celestial brightness, a more eternal beauty,

Shone on her face, and encircled her form, when after confession

Homeward serenely she walked, with God's benediction upon

her.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite

music." [Footnote: Longfellow: _Evangeline_.]

Francesca's daily life was as perfect as a child's could be. No untrue

words sullied her pure lips; no gross thought dwelt in her mind. She

seldom laughed, though a sweet smile was often on her lips. Up to the

age of eleven, her life was one long continual prayer. Every little

action was performed with a view to the glory of God. Her trifling

failings she deplored with anguish; every stain on the pure mirror of

her conscience was instantly washed away by tears. It was not long

before it pleased God to vouchsafe to her extraordinary graces. Her

early and almost intuitive acquaintance with the mysteries of religion

was wonderful. Every day she meditated on the Incarnation and the

Passion of Jesus Christ; and her devotion to the Blessed Virgin

increased in proportion to her love for our Lord. Her face flushed with

delight, and a seraphic expression beamed in her eyes, when she spoke

of the sufferings of Jesus, and the glories of Mary. From the little

oratory where she held secret communion with heaven, she went out into

the world with the most ardent desire to serve the poor, to console the

afflicted, to do good to all. The affection of her young heart found

vent in numerous works of charity; and Francesca's name, and Francesca's

sweet voice, and Francesca's fair face, were even then to many of the

sufferers of that dark epoch a sign of hope,--a pledge that God was

still amongst them as of yore, and His Spirit at work in the hearts of

men.

CHAPTER II.

FRANCESCA'S EARLY INCLINATION FOR THE CLOISTER--BY HER FATHER'S DESIRE

SHE MARRIES LORENZO PONZIANO--HER MARRIED LIFE--HER ILLNESS AND

MIRACULOUS CURE.

From the time that Francesca had understood the meaning of the words,

her greatest desire had been to enter a convent; but with that spirit of

humility and reserve which so particularly belonged to her, she had kept

her desire concealed in her heart, and had manifested it to none but

God and her director. Don Antonio encouraged her to persevere in this

silence, and to prove her own resolution by secretly adhering to the

rules, and practising the austerities of one of the strictest religious

orders. She gladly assented to this, and persevered in it for a

considerable time. Stronger and deeper every day grew her inclination to

forsake the world, and to hold communion with God alone in the solitude

of the cloister; with that God whose love had already driven from her

heart all care for comfort, for pleasure, and for self. But not so

smooth was to be her path through life; not much longer was she to sit

in silence at the feet of her Lord, with no other thought than to live

on the words, which fell from His lips.

Though she concealed as much as possible the peculiarities of her mode

of life, they could not altogether escape the notice of her parents; and

they soon questioned her on the subject. When she informed them of her

wish to embrace the religious life, her father chose to consider her

vocation as a childish fancy, and informed her in return that he had

already promised her in marriage to Lorenzo Ponziano, a young nobleman

of illustrious birth, and not less eminent for his virtues and for his

talents than from his fortune and position. He reckoned amongst his

ancestors St. Paulianus, pope and martyr; his mother was a Mellini; and

his eldest brother Paluzzo had married Vannuzza, a daughter of the

noble house of Santo Croce. Francesca's heart sank within her at this

announcement, and falling on her knees she implored her father to alter

his determination, and allow her to follow what she believed to be the

will of God in her regard. She went even so far as to protest that

nothing should induce her to consent to this marriage; torrents of tears

fell from her eyes as she poured forth her supplications and urged her

request. But it was all in vain that she wept and prayed. Paul Bussa

turned a deaf ear to her pleadings; declared that his word was pledged,

that nothing should ever persuade him to retract it; and he insisted

that, as a dutiful daughter, she should submit herself to his will.

Seeing him thus immovable, Francesca rose from her knees, withdrew

in silence from his presence, and retiring into her little oratory,

prostrated herself before the crucifix, and asked counsel of Him at

whose feet she wished to live and to die; and implored Him, if such was

His good pleasure, to exert His Almighty Power, and raise obstacles to

the projected marriage. Then, strengthened by prayer, she was inspired

to seek direction from him who was the organ of the divine will to her,

and hurrying to Santa Maria Nuova, she requested to see Don Antonio

Savello.

Kindly and gently the good priest spoke to his afflicted penitent. He

promised to consult the Lord for her in prayer, and suggested some

devotions to be used by herself for that purpose. Then, seeing her

countenance assume a calmer expression, he endeavoured to prepare her

mind for what he doubtless already knew was the will of God, and the

true, though in one so minded, the singular vocation of Francesca. "If

your parents persist in their resolution (he said), take it, my child,

as a sign that God expects of you this sacrifice. Offer up to Him in

that case your earnest desire for the religious life. He will accept the

will for the deed; and you will obtain at once the reward of that wish,

and the peculiar graces attached to the sacrament of marriage. God's

ways are not as our ways, Francesca. When St. Mary Magdalene had sent

for the Lord Jesus Christ to come and heal her brother, it was no doubt

a severe trial to her that He came not; that the long hours of the day

and of the night succeeded each other, and that He tarried on the way,

and sent no message or token of His love. But when her brother rose from

the dead, when the shroud fell from his limbs, and he stood before her

full of life and strength, she understood the mystery, and adored

the divine wisdom of that delay. God indeed asks of you your heart,

Francesca; but He also claims your whole self as an oblation, and

therefore your will that He may mould it into entire conformity with

His own. For works may be many and good, my daughter, and piety may be

fervent, and virtues eminent, and yet the smallest leaven of self-love

or self-will may ruin the whole. Why do you weep, Francesca? That God's

will is not accomplished, or that your own is thwarted? Nothing but sin

can mar the first, and in this your trial there is not the least shade

of sin. As to your own will, bend, break, annihilate it, my child, and

take courage. Have but one thought--the good pleasure, the sweet will

of God; submit yourself to His Providence. Lay down your wishes as an

oblation on His altar; give up that highest place which you had justly

coveted; take the lower one which He now appoints you; and if you cannot

be His spouse, be His loving and faithful servant."

Francesca went home, and awaited in silence her father's further

commands. She was very pale, for the struggle was a painful one. She

prayed night and day, watched and fasted. When Paul Bussa renewed his

injunctions, she gently gave her assent, begged him to forgive her past

resistance, and henceforward gave no outward signs of the suffering

within, all the greater that it came in the form of rejoicing, and that

others deemed that to be happiness which cost her so many secret tears.

The family of Ponziano were overjoyed at the marriage,--the bride was so

rich, so beautiful, and so virtuous; there was not a young man in Rome

who did not look with envy on Lorenzo, and wish himself in his stead.

There was no end to the banquets, the festivities, the merry-makings,

which took place on the occasion; and in the midst of these rejoicings

Francesca left her father's palace for that of the Ponziani. It stood in

the heart of the Trastevere, close to the Yellow River, though not quite

upon it, in the vicinity of the Ponte Rotto, in a street that runs

parallel with the Tiber. It is a well-known spot; and on the 9th of

March, the Festival of St. Francesca, the people of Rome and of the

neighbourhood flock to it in crowds. The modern building that has been

raised on the foundation of the old palace is the Casa dei Esercizii

Pii, for the young men of the city. There the repentant sinner who longs

to break the chain of sin, the youth beset by some strong temptation,

one who has heard the inward voice summoning him to higher paths of

virtue, another who is in doubt as to the particular line of life to

which he is called, may come, and leave behind them for three, or five,

or ten days, as it may be, the busy world, with all its distractions and

its agitations, and, free for the time being from temporal cares, the

wants of the body provided for, and the mind at rest, may commune with

God and their own souls. Here they listen daily, nay hourly, to the

instructions of devout priests, who, in the manner prescribed by St.

Ignatius, place before them in turn the most awful truths and the most

consoling mysteries of the Kingdom of God. Resolutions are thus taken,

conversions often effected, good purposes strengthened in a way which

often seems little short of miraculous. The means are marvellously

adapted to the end; and though many a wave may sweep over the soul,

when it again returns to the world, a mark has been stamped upon it not

easily effaced.

Over the Casa dei Esercizii Pii the sweet spirit of Francesca seems

still to preside. On the day of her festival its rooms are thrown open,

every memorial of the gentle saint is exhibited, lights burn on numerous

altars, flowers deck the passages, leaves are strewn in the chapel, on

the stairs, in the entrance-court; gay carpets, figured tapestry and

crimson silks hang over the door, and crowds of people go in and out,

and kneel before the relics or the pictures of the dear saint of Rome,

and greet on each altar, and linger in these chambers, like kinsfolk met

on a birthday to rejoice together. The well-dressed and the ragged, the

rich and the poor, without distinction, pay their homage to her sweet

memory whose living presence once adorned the spot which they visit. It

is a joyous and touching festival, one which awakens tender thoughts,

and brings the world of memory into close connection with that of hope.

The mind is forcibly carried back to the day when the young bride of

Lorenzo Ponziano entered these walls for the first time, in all the

sacred beauty of holiness and youth--

"Pure as the virgin snow that dwells

Upon the mountain's crest,

Cold as the sheet of ice that lies

Upon the lake's deep breast."

Pure from the least taint of worldly vanity, cold to all that belongs

to human passion; but with a heart burning with love to God, and

overflowing with charity to every creature of His.

She was received tenderly and joyfully by Lorenzo himself, by his father

Andrew, his mother Cecilia, and Vannozza, the wife of his elder brother.

Francesca smiled sweetly as she returned their caresses; but the noise,

and the gaiety, and the visiting, that attended a wedding in those

days weighed heavily on her spirits; and though she never complained,

Vannozza perceived that her little heart was oppressed with some secret

sorrow, and tenderly inquired into its cause. Francesca could not resist

the gentle appeal, and disclosed her grief to her kind sister. She told

her that the world had never given her pleasure, that her affections

were elsewhere set, that she longed to live for God alone, and felt

sad, in spite of all her efforts, at the tumult and dissipation, which

was now her portion. "If such are your feelings, my beloved little

sister," exclaimed Vannozza, "my sympathy may serve to console you; for

neither do I find any delight in the vanities of the world, but only in

prayer and meditation. Let us be friends, Francesca; I will help you to

lead the life you desire, and together we shall arrive at the end we

have in view."

These kind words filled Francesca's heart with joy; and from that day

forward there sprung up a friendship between these two young women,

which lasted for eight-and-thirty years, and was a source of the

greatest consolation to them through all the trials they had to

encounter, at the same time that it edified all those who beheld that

tender affection.

In her new home Francesca followed the same mode of life which she had

pursued in her father's house; but her zeal was tempered with so much

wisdom and prudence, that she offended no one, and contrived to win the

affection of all her relations. Her good sense, her sweetness of temper,

her earnest piety, charmed them all; and they were astonished that so

young a girl could at once assume the part and fulfil the duties of a

devoted wife and a noble matron. Anxious in every way to conform herself

to Lorenzo's wishes, she received the visits of the high-born ladies her

equals and companions, and returned them with punctuality. She submitted

to appear in public with all the state which belonged to her position,

and accepted and wore the costly dresses and the splendid jewels which

her husband lavished upon her; but under those gorgeous silks and rich

brocades a hair-shirt was concealed. Always ready to comply with any

observance which duty or propriety required, she at the same time

steadily abstained even from the innocent amusements in which others

indulged; and never danced or played at cards, or sat up late at night.

Her manner was so gentle and kind, that it inspired affection in all who

approached her; but there was also a profound and awful purity in her

aspect and in her demeanour, which effectually checked the utterance of

a free or licentious word in her presence. Faithful to her early habits

of piety, she continued every Wednesday her visits to Santa Maria Nuova;

and after confessing to Don Antonio, she went to communion with such

fervent devotion, that those who saw her at the altar absorbed in

adoration, foresaw that God would ere long bestow extraordinary graces

on her soul. Rising betimes in the morning, Francesca devoutly said her

prayers, made her meditation, and read attentively out of a spiritual

book. In the course of the day, whenever she had a moment's leisure

unclaimed by any of the duties of her state, she withdrew into a church

or into her own room, and gave herself up to prayer. Every Saturday she

had a conference with Fra Michele, a Dominican monk, the prior of San

Clemente, and an intimate friend of her father-in-law. He was a learned

theologian, as well as a man of great piety and virtue, and instructed

her with care in all the doctrines of religion.

At the same tune, so austere and devout a life in a young person of

twelve years old could not fail to attract the attention and draw down

the censures of the worldly. Many such began to laugh at Francesca, and

to turn her piety into ridicule. They intruded their advice on Lorenzo

Ponziano, and urged him to put a stop to what they termed his wife's

eccentricities. But happily for Francesca, he was not one of those men

who are easily influenced by the opinion of others. He formed his

own judgment, and pursued his own line of conduct undisturbed by the

comments and animadversions of his would-be advisers. His young wife was

much too precious to him, much too perfect in his sight, her whole life

bore too visibly the stamp of God's dealings with her, for him to dream

of interfering with the course she had taken. On the contrary, he looked

upon her with that affectionate veneration which the presence of true

sanctity always awakens in a noble and religious mind. His father and

mother were of the same way of thinking, and all but idolised the holy

child who had come amongst them as an angel of peace. They regarded

her as the blessing of their house, and the comfort of their old age.

Paluzzo, Lorenzo's brother, delighted in encouraging the intimacy that

had arisen between his young sister-in-law and his own wife Vannozza.

There was not a single member, friend, or servant, of that noble family,

that did not look with delight upon Francesca. She was the joy of every

heart, the sweet consoler of every sorrow, the link that bound them

all by the sacred cord of love. Day by day her influence--her tender,

noiseless, gentle influence--was felt, subduing, winning, drawing them

all to God.

The happiness which the family of Ponziano had enjoyed since Lorenzo's

marriage was interrupted by the sudden and dangerous illness of his

wife, which baffled all medical skill, and soon brought her to the verge

of the grave. The affliction of her husband and of his whole family was

extreme. Their pearl of great price seemed about to be taken from them.

No remedies afforded the slightest relief to her sufferings; she was

unable to rest, or to retain any nourishment; and every day her strength

declined. The consternation of her friends knew no bounds; her father

was inconsolable. He secretly reproached himself with the constraint he

had placed on her inclinations, and considered her illness as a Divine

chastisement. Francesca alone remained unmoved amidst the general

affliction. She placed her life in the hands of God, and waited the

event with perfect submission. Unable to speak, or even to move, the

sweet expression of her earnest eyes alone spoke her gratitude to those

who nursed her and wept over her sufferings. At other times they were

fixed on the Crucifix with an unutterable look of trust and love. Once

only she was disturbed, and indignation gave her strength to protest

against the guilty suggestions of some friends of the family, who,

according to the notions of that time, persisted in believing that a

spell had been cast upon her, and proposed to have recourse to some

persons in Rome who dealt, or pretended to deal, in magic arts.

Francesca declared herself ready to die, rather than countenance so

impious a proceeding. After all medical resources had been exhausted,

when despair had succeeded to hope, Almighty God restored her health for

a while; and the news of her recovery was hailed with rapture within and

without the palace.

Her sufferings, however, returned with double violence; she endured the

most excruciating pains; and was again considered to be at the point

of death. During a whole year she remained as it were on the brink of

eternity: her soul prepared to take its wing; continually sustained by

the Sacraments of the Church, her only remaining thought was to soothe

the anguish of her husband and parents. Once again, those persons who

had previously proposed to resort to magic arts for her cure, managed to

thrust into her room, on some pretence or other, a woman celebrated in

that line. Francesca, enlightened by a divine inspiration, instantly

detected the fraud; and raising herself in her bed, with a voice, the

strength of which astonished the bystanders, exclaimed, "Begone,

thou servant of Satan, nor ever venture to enter these walls again!"

Exhausted by the effort, she fell back faint and colourless; and for a

moment they feared that her spirit had passed away. But that very day

God was preparing a miracle in her behalf; and as she had refused to

hold any communication with the Evil One, He was about to send His young

servant a heavenly messenger, with health and healing on his wings. It

was the eve of the Festival of St. Alexis,--that noble Roman penitent,

who passed so many years at the threshold of his own palace, unpitied,

unrecognised by his own relations, who went in and out at the gate, and

stopped not to question the silent, lonely, patient beggar, who lay

there with his face hid in a poor cloak, finding peace in the midst of

bitterness.

The Ponziani had all withdrawn to rest for a few hours; the women

who attended on the dying Francesca had fallen asleep. She was lying

motionless on her couch of pain. Her sufferings had been sharp; they

were sharper than ever that night. She endured them in the strength of

the Cross, from which neither her eyes nor her thoughts wandered. The

whole house, and apparently the city also, was wrapt in slumber; for not

a sound marred the stillness of the hour,--that stillness so trying

to those who watch and suffer. Suddenly on the darkness of the silent

chamber a light broke, bright as the day. In the midst stood a radiant

figure, majestic in form and gracious in countenance. He wore a

pilgrim's robe; but it shone like burnished gold. Drawing near to

Francesca's bed, he said: "I am Alexis, and am sent from God to inquire

of thee if thou choosest to be healed?" Twice he repeated the words,

and then the dying one faintly murmured, "I have no choice but the good

pleasure of God. Be it done unto me according to His will. For my own

part, I would prefer to die, and for my soul to fly to Him at once; but

I accept all at His hands, be it life or be it death." "Life, then,

it is to be," replied St. Alexis; "for He chooses that thou shouldest

remain in the world to glorify His name." With these words he spread his

mantle over Francesca and disappeared, leaving her perfectly recovered.

Confounded at this extraordinary favour, more alive to the sense

of God's wonderful mercy than to her own sudden freedom from pain,

Francesca rose in haste, and prostrate on the floor, made a silent and

fervent thanksgiving; then slipping out of her room without awaking her

nurses, she hurried to the bedside of her friend and sister. Putting her

arm round her neck and her cheek next to her's, she exclaimed, "Vannozza

cara! Vannozza mia!" (My dear Vannozza, my own Vannozza.) And the

bewildered Vannozza suddenly awoke out of her sleep, and distrusting the

evidence of her senses, kept repeating, "Who calls me? Who are you? Am

I dreaming? It sounds like the voice of my Cecolella." [Footnote: The

Italian diminutive for Francesca.] "Yes, it is your Cecolella; it is

your little sister who is speaking to you." "My Francesca, whom I left

an hour ago at the point of death?" "Yes, the very same Francesca who

now holds you to her breast; you, you, my beloved companion, who day and

night have comforted and consoled me during my long illness, and who

must now help me to thank God for His wonderful mercy." Then sitting

upon her bed, with her hands clasped in her's, she related to her her

vision, and the instantaneous recovery that had followed it; and then,

as the light was beginning to break into the chamber, she added with

eagerness, "Now, now the day is come. Let us not delay a moment longer,

but hasten with me to Santa Maria Nuova, and then to the church of St.

Alexis. I must venerate his relics, and return him my thanks, before

others learn what God has done for me."

This pious purpose fulfilled, they returned home, where Francesca was

looked upon as one risen from the dead. The affection she inspired was

mingled with awe; every one considered her as the special object of the

Divine mercy, and venerated her accordingly. Not so joyfully had Lorenzo

received her on their bridal-day, as when she came to him now, restored

to his arms by the miraculous interposition of a merciful God.

CHAPTER III.

FRANCESCA PROCEEDS IN HER MORTIFICATIONS AND WORKS OF CHARITY--HER

SUPERNATURAL TEMPTATIONS AND CONSOLATIONS.

Not in vain had Francesca been brought so near to death, and so

wonderfully restored to perfect health. A favour such as she had

received could not fail of producing signal results in one who so

well corresponded with every degree of grace vouchsafed to her. This

last manifestation of God's mercy disposed her to meditate deeply and

earnestly on the designs of Providence in her regard. She seemed now

to discern, in a clear and overpowering manner, the nature of the

particular judgment which she had been about to undergo, the amount of

responsibility incurred by every grace conferred on her soul, the severe

account which would be demanded of every talent committed to her charge;

and at the sight she shuddered, as a man draws back affrighted at the

distinct appearance of a precipice which he has skirted in the night, or

at the waves dashing wildly on a beach on which he has been landed in

safety. Her meditations at that time assumed a very solemn character;

every moment that she could spare was spent in the neighbouring church

of St. Cecilia or in her own oratory, and employed in a minute review of

her past life, and in forming heroic resolutions for the future.

The government of the tongue is one of the most difficult and important

points in the spiritual life. From this time forward Francesca avoided

all unnecessary conversations, and became habitually silent. There was

no moroseness in her silence; it never interfered with the kindnesses or

the courtesies of life; but as in childhood she had been remarkable

for it, so in womanhood it distinguished her, and especially since her

illness and miraculous recovery. Vannozza inquired of her one day what

it was that made her so habitually silent, and she answered, "God

expects more of us than heretofore;" and then she proposed to her

a still stricter mode of life than they had yet adopted. Vannozza

willingly assented, and they agreed to give up all useless amusements,

fashionable drives, and diversions, and to devote to prayer and to good

works the hours thus withdrawn from the service of the world. They

resolved to observe with the most exact punctuality every law of God,

and every precept of the Church; to obey their husbands with the most

attentive and Christian-like submission; to be invariably docile to

their ghostly father, and submit to him their actions, their words, and

even their thoughts; and thus to secure themselves against the deceits

of the evil one. They then proceeded to arrange for themselves a place

of retreat, where they could withdraw to pray at any hour of the day or

of the night. It was not easy to accomplish this in a palace inhabited

by a numerous family and a large number of servants; but in a sort of

cave at one end of the garden, and in a little room that happened to be

unoccupied under the roof of the house, they established two oratories,

which they furnished with crucifixes, images of our Blessed Lady, and

pictures of saints, as well as with various other objects of devotion

and with instruments of penance. These two little cells became their

comfort and delight; whenever their domestic duties or their religious

observances out of doors left them at liberty, they were in the habit

of retiring into the garden oratory, and at night they frequently spent

whole hours in prayer in the upper chamber. The first dawn of day often

found them at their orisons. The hours that were not devoted to prayer

or to the duties of their state, they employed in works of charity.

Almost every day they went to the hospital of San Spirito, and nursed

the sick with the kindest attention; consoling them by their gentle

words and tender care, bestowing alms upon the most needy, and above

all, tending affectionately the most disgusting cases of disease

and infirmity. Throughout their whole lives they never omitted this

practice. To serve Christ in His afflicted brethren was a privilege they

never consented to forego.

Francesca was at this time very anxious to lay aside the insignia of

wealth and rank, and to dress as simply as the poor she so much loved;

but, always obedient, she would not attempt to do so without the

permission of her spiritual guide. Don Antonio Savello would not give

her leave to relinquish the splendid robes then worn by persons of her

rank; he feared it might annoy her husband, and that there might be

danger of ostentation in any thing that attracted public attention; but

he allowed both the sisters to wear a coarse woollen garment under

their magnificent dresses, and to practise in secret several other

austerities. Their fasts and abstinences became more rigid than ever;

but were carried on with so much simplicity, and such a total absence

of display, that the very persons who habitually took their meals in

company with them, scarcely remarked their mortifications, or else

attributed them to a peculiarity of taste or the observance of a

regimen. Disciplines and other bodily penances of a very severe nature

were by this time habitual to Francesca, and she persevered in them to

the end of her life. With whatever care they concealed all these things,

it was not possible that the city of Rome should remain ignorant of

their piety and their generosity to the poor. The common people looked

upon Francesca and Vannozza as two saints; and their example began to

tell beneficially upon the women of their own class. Several noble

ladies were inspired with the desire to walk in their steps, and to

imitate their virtues. But it was not likely that Satan should behold

unmoved the work of grace thus advancing in the hearts of these two

young servants of God, and through them on many others. He chafed at the

sight; and now began that long series of attacks, of struggles, and of

artifices, by which he endeavoured to mar the glorious progress of

these heroic souls. Almighty God seems to have granted to the prince of

darkness, in San Francesca's case, a permission in some respects similar

to that which He gave him with regard to His servant Job. He was allowed

to throw temptations in her way, to cause her strange sufferings, to

persecute her by fearful manifestations of his visible presence, to

haunt her under various shapes, some seductive in their appearance,

others repulsive and terrific in their nature; but he was not permitted

(as, thanks be to God, he never is permitted,) to deceive or to injure

His faithful servant, who for every trial of the sort obtained some

divine favour in compensation; who for every vision of diabolical

horror, was allowed a glimpse into the world of glory; and to whom at a

later period was appointed a heavenly guardian to defend her against the

violence of her infernal foe.

The first time that Satan presented himself in a visible form to

Francesca's sight, God gave her an earnest of His protection in the

strife about to be waged between her and the old serpent by miraculously

revealing to her the character of her visitor. It was under the aspect

of a venerable hermit, emaciated with fasts and watchings, that he

entered the Ponziano palace: his intention was, by some artful words, to

inspire Francesca with aversion and disgust for the solitary life, and

at the same time for that hidden life which she so zealously practised

in the midst of the world. He was shown into a large room, where the

assembled family were sitting and conversing together. No sooner had

Francesca set her eyes upon him, than she was supernaturally enlightened

as to his true character; she knew at once the dreadful enemy, thus

for the first time made manifest to her sight; and, suddenly changing

colour, she rose and left the room. Vannozza followed (alarmed at her

hasty departure), and found her in the oratory kneeling before the

Crucifix, and as pale as death. She inquired into the cause of her

emotion; but Frances simply desired her to return to the sitting-room,

and request Lorenzo to dismiss the hermit. As soon as he was departed,

she re-appeared amongst them as serene and calm as usual; and to no one

but to her confessor did she mention the circumstance. Yet it was a most

awful moment, that first initiation into the supernatural world, that

first contact with the powers of darkness, that opening of the visible

war between her and the great enemy. No wonder that she was habitually

silent; her soul must have lived in very close communion with the

invisible world, and the presence of God must have been realised in

an extraordinary decree by one whose spiritual discernment was so

miraculously keen.

A more ordinary snare was the tempter's next resource, and he chose as

his instrument a person of piety and virtue, but whose human fears and

affections were too strong for her faith. He suggested to Cecilia, the

mother-in-law of the two saints, who was most fondly attached to them,

and maternally solicitous about their healths, that the ascetic life

which they led must necessarily impair it; that amusements were

essential to young persons; and that the singularity of their conduct

reflected discredit on the family. Under this impression, she strove by

every means in her power to counteract their designs, to thwart them in

their devotional and charitable practices, and to induce them to give up

more of their time and of their attention to the world. She thus gave

them occasion to practise a very peculiar kind of patience, and to gain

the more merit in the eyes of God, in that they had daily to encounter a

sort of opposition particularly trying to young and ardent spirits. It

is related, that one day, when they had gently but steadily refused

to pay some visits which, far from being absolute duties, were only

pretexts for gossip and the most frivolous conversations, Francesca and

Vannozza had retired into the garden oratory; and after spending some

time in prayer, began conversing together on the life which the early

Fathers were wont to lead in the deserts, and of the happiness it must

be to live entirely devoted to the service of God, and to commune with

Him above, far from the distracting thoughts and cares of the world.

They went on picturing to themselves the manner in which they would

have divided their time and arranged their occupations under similar

circumstances, and together they made out a complete rule of life.

Absorbed in the subject, Vannozza exclaimed, with childlike simplicity,

"But what should we have to eat, sister?" and Francesca replied, "We

should search for fruits in the desert, dearest; and God would surely

not let us seek in vain." As she said these words they rose to return

home, and from a tree which grew out of a ruined wall on one side of

the garden there fell at her feet a quince of the largest size and most

shining colour, and another similar to it was lying in Vannozza's path.

The sisters looked at each other in silent astonishment; for the time of

the year was April, and nothing but a miracle could have brought these

apples to maturity at this unwonted season. The taste of the fruit was

as excellent as its colour was beautiful. They were divided amongst

the members of the family, who wondered at the marvels which seemed

continually to attend the steps of Francesca. She was profoundly

grateful for such favours, but probably marvelled less than others at

their occurrence. Her youth; the simplicity of her faith; her total

abstraction from worldly thoughts; her continual study and meditation

of the Holy Scriptures and of the lives of the Saints,--must have

necessarily familiarised her mind with such ideas. It could not seem

incredible to her, that the God who in less favoured times, and under

a severer dispensation, had so often suspended the laws of nature, in

order to support, to guide, and to instruct His people; that the Saviour

who had turned water into wine by a single word, and withered the

unprofitable fig-tree by a look,--should at all times display the same

power in favour of His children, in ways not a whit more marvellous or

mysterious.

Cecilia made one more effort to check what she considered exaggeration

in the mode of life of her daughters-in-law. She urged their husbands to

interfere, and by their authority to oblige them to mix more with the

world. But Paluzzo and Lorenzo had too deep an esteem for their wives,

and too great a sense of the advantages they derived from their singular

virtues, to be persuaded into putting a restraint on their actions.

Since they had come into the family, and united their pious efforts for

their own and others' spiritual improvement, disputes and quarrels had

given way to the most edifying concord. The servants, moved by their

example, performed their duties with exemplary zeal, frequented the

churches and the sacraments, and abstained from profane or idle words.

They accordingly entreated their mother to give up her fruitless

attempts, and allow the two young women liberty to follow the rule of

life they had adopted; and thus put an end to the kindly meant but

trying persecution they had gone through.

About this time the devil, thwarted in his designs, but always on

the watch, was permitted to vent his anger against Francesca and her

sister-in-law in a way to which he often had recourse, and which, while

it seemed to display a momentary power over their bodies, only proved

in the end that a stronger one than he was always at hand to defeat his

malice, and snatch from him his prize. Francesca and Vannozza had gone

to St. Peter's on an intensely hot day in July, in the year 1399.

Absorbed in prayer, they had hardly noticed the lapse of time, and

twelve o'clock had struck when they set out on their way home. In order

to avoid observation, and the marks of veneration which the people

lavished upon them as soon as they set eyes on the two saints (as they

always called them), they chose the most unfrequented streets they could

find. The heat grew intolerable. The sultry air seemed on fire, and not

a breath stirred it. Exhausted with fatigue, their mouths parched with

thirst, they reached the church of St. Leonardo; and holding each

other's hands, approached the brink of the river, in order to cool their

burning lips and throbbing heads with a little water. As they bent over

the stream for that purpose, a violent blow from an invisible arm was

aimed at Francesca, and hurled her into the Tiber. Vannozza fell with

her; and, clasped in each other's arms, they were rapidly carried away

by the current, and saw no means of escape. "They were lovely in their

lives, and in their deaths they were not divided," might well have been

said of them, had the watery grave, which seemed inevitable, swallowed

up on that day the two brides of the Ponziani. But it was not the will

of God that they should perish. Human aid was not at hand; the stream

was rapid, the current deep, and the eddies curled around them; but they

called upon God with one voice, and in an instant the waters, as if

instinct with life, and obedient to a heavenly command, bore them gently

to the shore, and deposited them unhurt on the green margin of the

river.

About this time also a supernatural favour of the most extraordinary

nature was vouchsafed to Francesca. Her guardian angel, who was one day

to accompany her, not by an invisible presence only, as in the case of

all Christians, but, by a rare privilege of grace, in a visible form,

ever manifest to her spiritual sight, now began to reveal himself to her

by the most watchful observance of her conduct. At all times and in

all places, by day and by night, her slightest faults were noticed and

punished by this still invisible, but now evidently present monitor. At

the least imperfection in her conduct, before she had time to accuse and

to condemn herself, she felt the blow of a mysterious hand, the

warning of an ever-attentive guardian; and the sound of that mystical

chastisement was audible to others also. Great was the astonishment

of those who could thus discern something of God's dealings with this

chosen soul. Once, when she had abstained through human respect from

interrupting the course of a very frivolous and useless conversation,

the warning was inflicted with such severity that she bore the mark of

the blow for several succeeding days.

Such a rapid advance in holiness, such new and ever-increasing virtues,

were the results of this supernatural tuition, that Satan now attempted

to seduce her by the wiliest of his artifices, the master-piece of

his art, his favourite sin,--"the pride that apes humility." So many

miracles wrought in her favour, such strange revelations of God's

peculiar love for her soul, awakened in Francesca's mind, or rather the

devil suggested to her the thought, that it might be better to conceal

them from her director, or at least to acquaint him with only a portion

of the wonders that were wrought in her behalf; and accordingly, the

next time she went to confession she refrained from mentioning the

signal grace which had been vouchsafed to her. At the very instant she

was thrown prostrate on the ground, and recognised the hand of her

heavenly monitor in the blow which thus warned her of the grievous

error into which she was falling. In that short moment she had time to

perceive and acknowledge it; and with intense contrition she confessed

to her director the false humility which had beguiled her into a

dangerous reserve, with perfect openness revealed to him the whole of

God's past and present dealings with her soul, and explained to him

the meaning of what had just taken place. Don Antonio listened with

astonishment and gratitude, and thus addressed her: "You have just

escaped from a great danger, my daughter; for those who aim at

perfection cannot conceal any thing from their spiritual guide without

running the risk of delusion. By your mistaken silence you were

complying with the suggestions of Satan, who, under the semblance of

humility, was seeking to awaken in you a secret and baneful pride. You

would have been led by degrees to over-estimate these supernatural

favours, to deem them not merely means of grace, but rewards due to your

merits; to despise those to whom God does not grant them; and to give

yourself up to extravagant and unauthorised austerities in order to

secure their continuance, and to distinguish yourself in your own and

others' sight. I should have forbidden you to practise them; you would

have been tempted to renounce my guidance, to take one confessor after

another, until you had found one weak or blind enough to approve your

self-will; and then the arch-enemy of mankind, under the garb of an

angel of light, would have made you the prey of his delusions, till

at last you might have fallen from one error into another, and made

shipwreck of your faith. Such has been the downward course of many a

soul, that has begun by yielding to a false humility--the offspring of

pride--and has ended in sin and perdition."

From that time forward, Francesca was on her guard against every species

of pride and self-reliance, however disguised and refined. She related

her faults and temptations, the graces she received and the favours she

obtained, with the same childlike openness and simplicity. It was at the

age of sixteen that she was thus advanced in the science of the saints;

and every day her virtues and her piety increased.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BIRTH OF FRANCESCA'S FIRST CHILD--HER CARE IN HIS EDUCATION--SHE

UNDERTAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF HER FATHER-IN-LAW'S HOUSEHOLD--A FAMINE

AND PESTILENCE IN ROME--FRANCESCA'S LABOURS FOB THE SICK AND POOR--THE

MIRACLES WROUGHT IN HER BEHALF.

The year 1400 was opening under melancholy auspices. Boniface IX. was at

that moment in possession of the pontifical throne, and celebrating the

jubilee, the periodical recurrence of which at the end of every fifty

years had been decreed by Clement VI. in 1350; but Rome was even then

in a lamentable state, and presages were not wanting of still more

disastrous times. The wars for the succession of the kingdom of Naples,

between Louis of Anjou and Ladislas Durazzo, were agitating the whole

of Italy; and the capital of the Christian world was exposed to all the

fury of the contending parties. The powerful faction of the Colonnas,

in arms against the Pope, invaded the Capitol at the head of a numerous

body of insurgents on horseback and on foot; and the air resounded with

the cries of "Long live the people! Death to the tyrant Boniface IX.!"

On that day the signal was given for a division of parties, which led

shortly afterwards to the appalling tragedy which decimated the nobility

of the Eternal City and deluged her streets with blood.

Lorenzo Ponziano, from his rank and his great possessions, as well

as from his fidelity to the Church and the Sovereign Pontiff, was

especially marked out as an enemy by the adverse faction. But while on

every side the storm was brewing, and the aspect of public affairs each

day more gloomy, a blessing was granted to him which for the last five

years he had ardently desired. The expectation of an heir to the family

of Ponziano filled him and his parents with inexpressible delight.

Francesca, in the meantime, was incessantly occupied in recommending to

God the child she was about to bear; and offered up her every little

act of devotion in its behalf, with the hope of drawing down the Divine

blessing on its future existence. In the same year she was happily

delivered of a son, who was immediately baptised in the church of Santa

Cecilia in Trastevere, and received the name of Giovanni Baptista.

It was not at that time the custom for ladies of rank to nurse their

children; but Francesca set aside all such considerations, and never

consented to forego a mother's sacred privilege. She did not intrust her

child for a moment to the care of others, afraid that, in her absence,

the utterance of unworthy sentiments, bad manners and habits, which even

in infancy may cause impressions not easily eradicated, should taint

with the least evil the heart and mind of her son. It is remarkable how

careful the holy mothers which we read of in the lives of the Saints

appear to have been of the circumstances attending the infancy of their

children,--that period during which we are apt to suppose that no

impressions can be given or received. Are we not perhaps in error

on that point?--As much that we read and apparently forget leaves

notwithstanding a certain deposit in our minds, which comes into play

when called forth by association, so, may not certain sights, sounds,

and words, not understood at the time, impart a certain colour, stamp

certain images on the mind of an infant, which, however dim and

confused, deepen and grow with it as it expands? There have been

curious psychological instances of names, of languages, of dormant

recollections, reawakening as it were under a peculiar condition of the

nervous system, and which could only be traced to impressions received

in the earliest stages of existence.

Francesca, in obedience to her director, as well as guided by her own

sense of duty, modified for the time being her usual mode of life, and

occupied herself with the care of her child in preference to all other

observances of charity or of devotion. She did not complain or regret

that she had to give up her habitual religious exercises, in order to

tend and to nurse the little creature whom she looked upon as the gift

of God, and whose careful training the best offering she could make in

return. The joy which she had felt in her infant's birth was marred by

the death of her father, who, when his grandson was placed in his arms,

exclaimed in the words of St. Simeon, "Lord, now lettest Thou thy

servant depart in peace;" and the words seem to have been prophetic, for

he died almost immediately afterwards, and was buried in the vaults of

Santa Agnese, in the Piazza Nuova. At a later period, when that church

was reconstructed, his remains were transported to the cloisters of

Tor Di Specchi, where the simple inscription, "Here lies Paul Bussa,"

remains to this day. Francesca, in pursuance of her desire, not only to

exclude evil, but to infuse good dispositions at the earliest possible

period into her baby's soul, lost no opportunity of imparting to him the

first notions of religion. Before he could speak, she used to repeat

to him every day the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, clasp his little

hands together, and direct his eyes to heaven, and to the images of

Jesus and Mary, whose names were of course the first words he learned to

utter. She checked in him by grave looks, and slight punishments fitted

to his age, every ebullition of self-will, obstinacy, and anger; and

later, of deceit, envy, and immodesty. Though she had the most tender

mother's heart, she seldom indulged in passionate caresses, and never

left unchastised any of his faults, or gave way in any instance to his

tears and impatience. When others objected that it was absurd to expect

self-command from a creature whose reason was not developed, she

maintained that habits of self-control are to be acquired at the

earliest age, and that the benefit thus obtained extends to the whole of

life. The child thus trained lived to prove the wisdom of her views, and

became in difficult times the support of his family and an honour to

their name.

About a year after the birth of Giovanni Baptista, Cecilia, Lorenzo's

mother, died. Andreazzo Ponziano, and both his sons, fully conscious of

the prudence and virtue of Francesca, resolved to place her at the head

of the house, and to commit to her alone the superintendence of their

domestic affairs and the whole management of the household. Distressed

at the proposal, she pleaded her youth and inexperience, and urged that

Vannozza, as the wife of the eldest brother, was as a matter of course

entitled to that position. Vannozza, however, pleaded with such

eagerness that it was her most anxious desire not to occupy it, and

that all she wished was to be Francesca's disciple and companion, that,

overcome by the general importunity, she found herself obliged to

comply. Now it was that her merit shone conspicuously. Placed at

the head of the most opulent house in Rome, no symptom of pride, of

haughtiness, or of self-complacency, ever revealed itself in her looks

or in her actions. She was never heard to speak a harsh or impatient

word. Firm in requiring from every person in her house the proper

fulfilment of their duties, she did it in the gentlest manner. Always

courteous to her servants, she urged them to serve God with diligence,

and watched over their souls redeemed by His precious blood. Her address

was so winning and persuasive, that it seldom failed of its effect. She

contrived to arrange the hours of their labour with so much order and

skill, that each had sufficient leisure to hear Mass, to attend the

parochial instructions on Sundays and holidays, to frequent the

Sacraments, and join every day in family prayer,--fulfilling the whole

of a Christian's duty. If by any chance (and it was a rare one in a

house thus governed) a quarrel arose between any of the servants, she

was always ready to come forward, appease angry passions, and reconcile

differences. If, in so doing, she had occasion to speak with what she

considered undue severity to one of the parties, she would immediately

apologise with tears, and in the humblest manner entreat forgiveness.

This extreme sweetness of disposition, however, did not degenerate into

weakness; and she could testify the utmost displeasure, and reproved

with energy when offences were committed against God. It was intolerable

to her that His Divine Majesty should be insulted in her abode; and

she, the gentlest and most unassuming of women, could display on such

occasions the greatest firmness.

One day, it is recorded, several gentlemen had been dining with Lorenzo;

and one of them after dinner drew from his pocket a book which contained

a treatise on magic. Lorenzo took it up, and was examining it with some

curiosity, when his wife stole noiselessly behind him, took it out of

his hands, and threw it into the fire. Nettled by this proceeding, her

husband reproached her in rather bitter terms for her incivility to

their guest; but she, who was habitually submissive to his least word,

only replied that she could not regret the destruction of what might

have proved to many an occasion of sin. She inexorably consigned to the

flames in the same manner every bad book that came in her way.

Her tender charity was evinced when any of the inmates of the palace

were ill. She was then the affectionate nurse of the sufferers, and

spent whole nights by their bedside. Nothing ever discouraged or wearied

her; the lowest servant in the house was attended to, as if she had been

her own mother or sister. More anxious still for their soul's health

than their body's, she was known to go out herself alone at night in

search of a priest when a sudden case of danger had occurred beneath her

roof. Her charity was in one instance miraculously rewarded by a direct

interposition of Providence, in a matter apparently trifling, but on

which, humanly speaking, her dear sister Vannozza's existence seemed to

turn. She was dangerously ill, and had been for days unable to swallow

any food; the very sight of it caused her intolerable nausea; and from

sheer exhaustion her life was reduced to so low an ebb, that the worst

was apprehended. On Francesca's inquiring if she could think of any

thing which she could imagine it possible to eat, she named a certain

fish, which was not in season at that time. The markets were scoured by

the servants, but naturally in vain, and they returned empty-handed to

the dejected Francesca, who, kneeling by the bedside of her friend,

betook herself, with arduous faith and childlike simplicity, to prayer.

When she raised her head, the much-wished-for article of food was lying

before her; and the first morsel of it that Vannozza eat restored her to

health.

She had been about a year at the head of her father-in-law's house,

when Rome fell under the double scourge of famine and pestilence. The

Ponziani were immensely rich, and their palace furnished with every kind

of provisions. Francesca forbade her servants to send away a single poor

person without relieving their wants; and not content with this, she

sought them out herself, invited them to come to her, and made them

continual presents of corn, wine, oil, and clothing. She exhorted them

to bear their sufferings with patience, to return to God and to their

religious duties, and to strive by fervent prayer to appease the Divine

wrath, provoked by the crimes of mankind. Vannozza and herself were

indefatigable in their visits to the hospitals and the out-of-the-way

corners of the city.

Andreazzo Ponziano, a good man, but not a saint, was alarmed at the

excessive liberality of his daughter-in-law, and feared that it would

end in producing a famine in his own house. He began by prudently

withdrawing from their hands the key of the granary; and then, for

greater security, afraid perhaps of yielding to their entreaties, which

he was not accustomed to resist, he took to selling whatever corn he

possessed beyond what was required for the daily consumption of the

family. Nothing, therefore, remained in the corn-loft but a huge heap of

straw. The provident old man followed the same plan with his cellar, and

sold all the wine it contained, with the exception of one cask, which

was reserved for his own and his children's use.

Meanwhile the scarcity went on increasing every day, and the number

of starving wretches in proportion. Franceses, unable to meet their

demands, and still more incapable of leaving them to perish, braved at

last all false shame and repugnance, and resolved with Vannozza to go

into the streets and beg for the poor. Then were seen those two noble

and lovely women standing at the doors of the churches, knocking at the

gates of the palace, following the rich in the public places, pleading

with tears the cause of the sufferers, gladly receiving the abundant

alms that were sometimes bestowed upon them, and not less gladly the

sneers, the repulses, the insulting words that often fell to their share

in these pilgrimages of mercy. At last the famine reached its height. At

every side,--on the pavement, in the corners of the streets,--were lying

crowds of persons, barely clothed with a few tattered rags, haggard

with hunger, wasted with fever, and calling upon death to end their

sufferings. It was a grievous, a horrible sight,--one that well-nigh

broke the heart of our saint. The moanings of the dying were in her

ears; the expression of their ghastly faces haunted her day and night.

She would have gladly shed her blood for them, and fed them with

her life. A sudden inspiration came over her one day: "Come to the

corn-loft," she exclaimed, turning to Vannozza, and to Clara, a

favourite and pious servant of theirs; "Come with me to the corn-loft;

let us see if amongst the straw we may not succeed in finding a few

grains of corn for the poor." And on their knees for several hours those

patient, loving women sifted the straw, and by dint of labour collected

about a measure of corn, which they were bearing away in triumph, when

the God who caused the widow's oil not to fail, and made her barrel of

meal last through a scarcely more grievous famine, was preparing their

reward. Lorenzo had entered the granary just as they were carrying off

their hard-earned treasure, and, looking about him, beheld in place of

the straw which was lying there a moment before, 40 measures of

bright yellow corn, so shining and so full, says Francesca's earliest

biographer, that it seemed as though it had been raised in Paradise, and

reaped there by angels. In silent astonishment he pointed out to them

the miraculous supply, and must have felt in that hour what such virtue

as his wife's and his sister's could even in this world win of mercy at

God's hands. But corn was not enough; the sick wanted wine. They came,

poor pallid ghosts, just risen from their beds of suffering, to beg it

of Francesca; aged men and delicate children, mothers with infants at

their breasts, poor worn-out priests sinking with exhaustion, and yet

willing to assist others, they had recourse to her for a little wine to

strengthen them in their works of mercy, and she had no wine to give,

save out of the single cask in the cellar. She gave it, nevertheless;

and day after day drew from it, till not a drop was left. Andreazzo,

provoked, waxed very wroth; he had never before been angry with

Francesca, but now he stormed and raved at her; he had been to the

cellar to see the wine drawn for that day's use, and not a drop was in

the cask. "Charity indeed!" he exclaimed, "charity begins at home;

a pretty sort of virtue this, which, under the pretext of assisting

strangers, introduces penury and privation into the midst of a person's

own family." He vented his anger in bitter reproaches; Lorenzo and

Paluzzo were also inclined to take his part, and joined in severely

blaming Francesca. She the while, with a gentle voice and quiet manner,

breathing most probably a secret prayer to her who at the marriage-feast

of Cana turned to her Son and said, "They have no wine," doubtless with

an inward assurance that God would befriend her in an extraordinary,

but not to her an unprecedented manner, thus addressed them: "Do not be

angry; let us go to the cellar; may be, through God's mercy, that the

cask may be full by this time." They followed her with an involuntary

submission; and on reaching the spot, saw her turn the cock of the

barrel, out of which there instantly flowed the most exquisite wine,

which Andreazzo acknowledged to be superior to any he had ever tasted.

The venerable old man turned to his daughter-in-law, and, with tears in

his eyes, exclaimed,

"Oh, my dear child, dispose henceforward of every thing I possess, and

multiply without end those alms that have gained you such favour in

God's sight."

The report of this miracle spread far and wide; and, in spite of

her humility, Francesca did not object to its being divulged, as it

testified to the Divine virtue of almsgiving, and encouraged the rich to

increase their liberality, and minister more abundantly to the suffering

members of Christ.

A kind of religious awe seems to have taken possession of Lorenzo's

mind, at the sight of so many wonders wrought in his house. The great

esteem in which he had always held his wife, now took the form of a

profound veneration. He recommended her to follow in every respect the

divine inspirations she received, and left her entirely free to order

her life and dispose of her time in any way she thought fit. Francesca,

after consulting with her director, took advantage of this permission to

execute what had been her long-cherished desire. Selling all her rich

dresses, her jewels, and her ornaments, she distributed the money

amongst a number of poor families, and from that time forward never

wore herself any other gown than one of coarse dark-green cloth. Her

mortifications became so continual and severe, her fasts so rigid, that

it is difficult to conceive how her health could have sustained them

without miraculous support, or how she can have found time for all

her duties, and the incredible number of good works which she daily

performed. When we consider that she was unremitting in her attention

to her children, that she was never known to neglect the diligent

superintendence of household affairs, that she repeatedly visited the

hospitals and the poor sick in their houses, that morning and evening

she went to the churches where indulgences were to be gained, recited

numerous vocal prayers, often spent hours in contemplation, and in the

garden oratory, where with Vannozza, Clara, and Rita Celli, a devout

young person who was admitted into their intimacy, she read spiritual

books or conversed on religious subjects,--our admiration is

quickened; for that zeal and strong will could work wonders all but

incomprehensible to those who have not put their shoulder to the wheel

in good earnest, or learnt to appreciate the priceless value of every

minute of this short life.

CHAPTER V.

THE BIRTH OF FRANCESCA'S SECOND SON--HIS SUPERNATURAL GIFTS--THE

BIRTH OF HER DAUGHTER--SATANIC ATTACKS UPON FRANCESCA---TROUBLES OF

ROME--FRANCESCA'S HUSBAND IS SEVERELY WOUNDED--HER ELDEST SON, WHEN

GIVEN UP AS A HOSTAGE TO THE NEAPOLlTANS, IS MIRACULOUSLY RESTORED TO

HER.

FRANCESCA had just attained the age of twenty when her second son was

born. He was baptised on the day of his birth, and received the name

of Giovanni Evan--gelista. The contemporary biographer, some of whose

sayings have been already quoted, mentions of this child that he was

endowed with wonderful gifts of grace, and that the love of God was

manifested in him even before he could speak. In his quaint language he

thus describes him: "Evangelista was old in sense, small in body, great

in soul, resplendent in beauty, angel-like in all his ways." He might

well have been termed, in familiar language, his mother's own child;

for in his veriest infancy his only pleasure was to be carried into

churches, or to give alms to the needy, especially to the poor

religious, for whom he had a special predilection. Francesca's delight

in this lovely little infant was indescribable. He was to her as one of

God's own angels, and tears of joy filled her eyes as she mused on the

extraordinary signs of grace which he daily evinced. Supernatural had

been the mother's virtues, supernatural were the qualities of the child;

at the age of three years old he was endowed with the gift of prophecy,

and the faculty of reading the un-uttered thoughts of men's hearts.

Singular instances of this power are on record. He was in his mother's

arms one day, when two mendicant friars approached the Ponziano Palace.

Instantly stretching out his little hands, Evangelista took from

Francesca the alms she was wont to bestow on such visitors, and held

it out to them; but at the same time looking steadfastly at one of the

monks, he said to him, "Why will you put off this holy habit? you will

wear a finer one; but woe to you who forget your vow of poverty."

The friar coloured and turned away; but it was soon evident that the

words were prophetic, for within a short time, and after obtaining a

bishopric through a simoniacal act, the unhappy man died a violent

death. That same year, Evangelista was in his parent's room one day;

and his father taking him up on his knees, was playing with him, and

devouring him with kisses. In the midst of his sport, the child turned

suddenly pale, and laying hold of a dagger which had been left on the

table, he placed the point of it against Lorenzo's side, and said to him

as he looked up into his face with a strange melancholy smile, "Thus

will they do to you, my father." And it so happened that at the time

of the invasion of Rome by the troops of Ladislas Durazzo, the lord of

Ponziano was dangerously wounded in the exact place and manner which his

little son had pointed out.

Evangelista was not quite three years old when his little sister Agnese

was born, who in beauty, heavenly sweetness of temper, and precocious

piety, proved the exact counterpart of her brother. Soon after her

confinement, Francesca had a vision which impressed her with the belief

that God would one day claim this child as His own. She saw a dove of

dazzling whiteness, bearing in its beak a tiny lighted taper, enter the

room; and after making two or three circles in the air, it stooped over

Agnese's cradle, touched her brow and limbs with the taper, gently

fluttered its wings, and flew away. Looking upon this as a sign that the

little maiden would be called to the monastic life, she brought her up

as a precious deposit only lent her for a time, and to be delivered up

at no distant period. With even stricter care than she had used with her

brother, if that were possible, she watched over the little girl; never

leaving her for a single moment, and performing towards her the

offices of a servant as well as of a mother. She kept her in complete

retirement, never taking her out of doors except to church; teaching her

to love Jesus supremely--better even than her parents--and entertaining

her with descriptions of that dear Saviour's adorable perfections. She

encouraged her to observe silence, to work with her hands at stated

times, and taught her to read in the lives of the saints of holy virgins

and martyrs. Agnese's character and turn of mind answered precisely to

her mother's wishes; and the perfection of her conduct was such, that

she was generally designated by all who knew her as the little saint or

the little angel.

The years of Evangelista's and Agnese's infancy had been most disastrous

ones to the unhappy inhabitants of Rome. The factions which had arisen

in consequence of the schism, and of the intrigues of Ladislas of

Naples, had banished all security, and converted the town into a

field of battle, where bloody conflicts were daily taking place. The

principles of union seemed banished from the world. The nations and

sovereigns of Europe, given up to the most selfish policy, ceased to

acknowledge the chief pastor of the Church; and the Eternal City,

beyond any other place, had become an arena for ferocious struggles

and sanguinary conspiracies. The year 1406 brought with it a momentary

semblance of peace, and Francesca and Vannozza availed themselves of

that breathing-time to revisit some of the distant churches, and attend

the Italians as before. They used to walk to them on foot at the

earliest break of day, accompanied by Rita Celli, the young person

already mentioned, and Lucia degli Aspalli, a devout married woman

nearly related to the Ponziano family. They repeated psalms and litanies

on their way, or spent the time in pious meditation, and remained some

hours in prayer before the altars which they visited in turn,--taking

care to be at home again by the time that their presence was required.

In that troubled epoch the voice of the preacher was seldom heard;

sermons, however, were occasionally delivered by the Franciscans and the

Dominicans in the churches of Ara Coeli and Santa Maria sopra Minerva;

and at these our saints never failed to assist. Their spiritual guide

had given them leave to go to communion several times a week. This was

a privilege seldom granted and seldom sought for in those distracted

times. The blessed practice of daily communion, which universally

prevailed amongst the early Christians,--that practice which turns earth

into heaven, and converts the land of exile into a paradise of peace

and joy,--was all but entirely neglected, or only kept up in some few

cloisters. The two sisters habitually communicated in the church of

Santa Cecilia, the nearest to their house. One of the priests of that

parish was scandalised at the frequency of their communions, and

persuaded himself that it was incredible that young women of their age,

and in such a position of life, could possibly be in possession of

the requisite dispositions. This unhappy man ventured one day to give

Franeesca an unconsecrated wafer; God instantly revealed to the saint

the sin of the priest, and she informed her director of the fact. Don

Antonio disclosed to the astonished offender the secret which had been

confined to his own breast. He confessed his fault with the deepest

contrition, implored God's pardon, asked forgiveness of the saint, and

received the humiliation as a warning against rash judgments.

The warfare which Satan was permitted to carry on against Francesca

became more and more violent at this period of her life. In actual

outrages, in terrific visions, in mystical but real sufferings, which

afflicted every sense and tortured every nerve, the animosity of the

evil spirit evinced itself; and Almighty God permitted it, for she was

of those chosen through much tribulation to ascend the steep path which

is paved with thorns and compassed with darkness, but on which the ray

of an unearthly sunshine breaks at times. She was to partake of the

miraculous gifts of the saints; to win men's souls through prayer, to

read the secrets of their hearts, to see angels walking by her side, to

heal diseases by the touch of her hands, and hold the devils at bay,

when they thought to injure the bodies of others or wage war with

her own spirit. But such heights of glory are not gained without

proportionate suffering; the cup of which Jesus drank to the dregs in

His agony she was to drink of, the baptism of horror with which He

was baptised was to be her's also in a measure; and that mysterious

weakness, that divine helplessness of His, which allowed Satan to carry

Him, the Lord of all, to the pinnacle of the temple or the brow of the

mountain, was not unshared by His servant. Strange and bewildering were

the assaults she endured, but still more wonderful the defeats of the

evil one. Of her triumph, as of those of her Lord, it may be said, "that

when the devil left her, then angels came and ministered unto her."

Strange, that those who believe the history of Jesus should turn

incredulously away from that of His saints; for did He not expressly

say, that what He suffered, they should suffer; that where He had

overcome, they would triumph; and that the works that He performed, aye

and greater works still, they should accomplish?

On one occasion, when on the point of setting out for the Basilica of

St. Peter's, Vannozza was violently precipitated down the stairs of the

palace by the power of the evil spirit, and fell at her sister's feet,

who at that instant heard a voice whispering in her ear, "I would kill

thy sister, and drive thee to despair;" but at the same moment an inward

revelation bade Francesca raise up the prostrate form of her friend,

and apply to her bruised limbs an ointment which instantly relieved the

pains of her fall. Another time our saint was lifted up by the hair of

her head, and suspended over a precipice for the space of some minutes;

with perfect calmness she called upon Jesus, and in a moment found

herself in safety within her room. Her first act was to cut off her

beautiful hair, and, offer it up as a thank-offering to Him who had

saved her from the hands of the infernal enemy. These are only specimens

of the trials of this nature to which Francesca was more or less

subjected all her life, but to which it will not be necessary again to

make more than casual allusion.

In the year 1409, when she was about twenty-seven years old, her

temporal calamities began. After Ladislas of Naples, befriended by the

enemies of the Pope, and in 1408 gained possession of Rome by fraudulent

means he left behind him as governor of the city the Count Pietro Traja,

a rough and brutal soldier, well fitted to serve the fierce passions of

his master. He was continually looking out for occasions to persecute

those Roman nobles who remained faithful to the cause of the Church.

He was abetted in this by the faction of the Colonnas, and some other

powerful families, who supported the pretensions of the anti-Popes

Gregory XII. and Benedict XIII. against the legitimate pontiff Alexander

V., recently elected by the Council of Pisa. The troops of Lewis of

Anjou, the rival of Ladislas in the kingdom of Naples, had in the mean

time entered that portion of Rome which went by the name of the Leonine

City, and gained possession of the Vatican and the castle of St. Angelo.

Several skirmishes took place between the forces of the usurper and the

troops of the Pope and of Lewis of Anjou. Lorenzo Ponziano, who from

his birth and his talents was the most eminent man of his party, and an

ardent supporter of the legitimate cause, commanded the pontifical army

on one of these occasions, and was personally engaged in a conflict

with the Count of Traja's soldiers. In the midst of the fray he was

recognised by the opposite party, and became the special mark of their

attacks. Fighting with heroic courage, he had nearly succeeded in

dispersing his assailants, when, as Evangelista had foretold the year

before, a dagger was treacherously thrust into his side, and inflicted

so deep a wound that he fell to the ground, and was taken up for dead.

The terrible news was carried to the Ponziano palace, and announced

to Francesca. The anguish that her countenance revealed filled the

bystanders with compassion; but it was only for an instant that she

stood as if transfixed and overwhelmed with grief.

Repressing by a strong effort her bursting sobs and the cries that were

breaking from her heart, she soon raised her eyes to heaven with a

steadfast gaze, forgave the assassin, offered up Lorenzo's life and her

own, and murmured the words of Job, "The Lord had given him, the Lord

has taken him away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Then, calm,

composed, braced for endurance, she courageously advanced to meet the

slow approach of those who were bringing back to his home the body of

her murdered husband. As they laid him in the hall of the palace, she

knelt by his side, and putting her face close to his, she discerned in

the apparently lifeless form the faint symptoms of lingering vitality.

The sudden revulsion of hope did not overcome her presence of mind. She

instantly desired those about her to send for a priest and for a doctor;

and then, bending over Lorenzo, she suggested to him, in words which

found their way to the understanding of the dying man, whatever the most

affectionate tenderness and the most ardent piety could devise at such a

moment,--to prepare the soul for its last flight, pardon for his foes,

and especially for his assassin, a firm trust in God, and the union of

his sufferings with those of his Lord.

The palace presented a scene of wild confusion. Armed men were moving to

and fro; the clash of arms was mingled with the groans of the servants:

the weeping and waitings of the women and of the children, vows of

vengeance, curses deep and loud, frantic regrets, were heard on every

side. Francesca alone was as an angel of peace, in the midst of the

uproar of passion and the outpouring of grief. Her's was the keenest

sorrow of all; but it was kept under by the strength of a long-practised

faith, and thus it interfered with no duty and staggered at no trial.

Day and night she watched by Lorenzo's couch. Her experience in nursing

the sick, and in dressing wounds, enabled her to render him the most

minute and efficacious assistance. Her watchful love, her tender

assiduity, received its reward; God gave her that life, far dearer to

her than her own. Contrary to all expectation, Lorenzo slowly recovered;

but for a long time remained in a precarious condition.

Meanwhile the Count of Traja, pressed on every side, began to foresee

the necessity of leaving Rome; but, in his exasperation, resolved

previously to wreak his vengeance on the families most devoted to the

Pope, and especially on that of the Ponziani, which was especially

obnoxious to him. He accordingly arrested Paluzzo, Vannozza's husband,

and kept him in close confinement; and understanding that Lorenzo had a

son of eight or nine years old, he commanded that he should be given

up into his hands as a hostage, and swore that in case of a refusal

he would put Paluzzo to death. Now, indeed, is Francesca tried almost

beyond the power of endurance: now is her cup of anguish filled to the

brim. She can ask counsel of none: Lorenzo she dares not consult: it

might kill him to hear the fearful truth. Others would say, "Give up the

child;" and she looks at his fair face, at his innocent eyes, at the

purity of his spotless brow; and she cannot, she will not, she must not

give him up. Oh, that she had the wings of a dove to fly away and carry

him hence! She takes him by the hand, and, like a second Hagar, goes

forth, whither she knows not. It is an instinct, an impulse, an

inspiration. It is the mother's heart within her that bids her fly from

the horrible dilemma, and save her child from the tyrant who seeks more

than his life,--who would ruin his soul. Through out-of-the-way streets,

into the deserted corners of the city she goes, clasping the boy's hand

with an agonising grasp, with but one thought--to hide him from every

eye. Suddenly she stops short; before her stands Don Antonio, her

long-trusted director, who has led her through the green pastures

in which her spirit has found rest. He questions her, and hears the

incoherent account of her fears, her anguish, and her flight. By a

supernatural light he sees the drift of this trial, and puts her faith

to the test. "Francesca," he said, "you fly to save the child; God bids

me tell you that it is to the Capitol you must carry him--there lies his

safety; and do you go to the Church of Ara Cceli." A fierce struggle

rose in Francesca's heart--the greatest storm that had ever convulsed

it. "To the Capitol!" she is about to cry. "It is at the Capitol that

the tyrant awaits him!" But ere the words are uttered, they die away

on her lips. Grace has gained the mastery; the faith of the saint has

asserted its power. The wild expression passes away from her eyes; she

bows her head in silence, and with a firm step retraces her steps, in

obedience to him who has spoken in God's name. In the mean time the

report of the event had spread through Rome, and in the more crowded

streets which she had to pass through a cry of pity and of terror arose.

Crowds press about her, and bid her turn back; they tell her she is mad

to surrender the child, they try to take him from her, and to carry him

back by force to his father's palace; but in vain. She waves them

off, and pursues her way till she has reached the Capitol. She walked

straight up to the place where the Neapolitan tyrant was standing, and

surrendered up the boy to him; and then, without once looking back, she

hurried into the Church of Ara Coeli, fell prostrate at the feet of the

Mother of Mercy, and before that sacred image, dear to this day to every

Catholic parent, she made the sacrifice of her child, of her life, of

her soul, of all that in that hour she had felt to give up. Then, for

the first time, a torrent of tears relieved her tight-bound heart; and

gazing on the picture, she saw the dove-like eyes of the Blessed Virgin

assume the tenderest and most encouraging expression, and in her ears

were whispered words welcome as the dew to the thirsty ground; sweet as

the notes of the bird when the storm has subsided: "Be not afraid; I am

here to befriend you."

She was at peace; she felt sure that her son was safe; and on her knees,

in speechless prayer, she waited the event. Nor did she wait long. When

she had left the Count of Traja's presence, he had ordered one of his

officers to take the little Baptista on his horse, and carry him away to

a place he appointed; but, from the instant that the child was placed on

the saddle, no efforts could induce the animal to stir from the spot.

In vain his rider urged him with spurs and whip: neither the severest

blows, nor the accustomed voice of his master, succeeded in moving him

an inch from the place, where he stood as motionless as a statue. Four

of the knights of Naples renewed the attempt. Four successive steeds

were tried for the purpose, and always with the same result. There is a

strength greater than man's will; there is a power that defeats human

malice. Struck with a secret terror and dismay by the evident prodigy,

the Count of Traja gave up the unequal contest, and ordered the child

to be restored to his mother. Before the altar of the Ara Coeli, at the

foot of that image, where in her anguish she had fallen and found hope

when hope seemed at end, Francesca received back into her arms the

son of her love, and blessed the God who had given her strength to go

through this the severest of her trials.

CHAPTER VI.

SUFFERINGS OF ROME FROM THE TROOPS OF LADISLAS--DEATH OF FRANCESCA'S SON

EVANGELISTA--THE FAMINE AND PLAGUE IN ROME--FRANCESCA'S LABOURS FOR THE

STARVlNG AND SICK--HER MIRACLES.

POPE ALEXANDER V. died at Bologna in 1410. Sixteen cardinals assembled

in that city, and chose for his successor Balthazar Cossa, who took

the name of John XXIII. While they were proceeding with the election,

Ladislas seized the opportunity of the interregnum once more to advance

upon Rome; and from Veletri he threatened it with a second invasion. The

new Pope renewing the alliance with Lewis of Anjou, they combined their

forces against Ladislas, and endeavoured to drive him back from the

position he had taken. Their arms proved successful in a first battle;

but Lewis having withdrawn his troops immediately after the victory,

Ladislas deceived the Holy Father by a pretended peace, gained

possession of Rome, and gave it up to pillage. The horrors of this

invasion, and of the sack that followed it, surpassed in atrocity almost

all those which had previously afflicted the capital of the Christian

world. A number of palaces and houses were destroyed, the basilicas

were despoiled of their treasures and desecrated by the most abominable

orgies, the churches turned into stables, and many of the faithful

adherents of the Church subjected to the torture or barbarously put to

death.

The Ponziani were amongst the principal of the Pope's supporters; and

Lorenzo, scarcely recovered from his long illness, was persuaded by his

friends to withdraw himself by flight from the fury of the conqueror,

and conceal himself in a distant province. It had been impossible to

remove his wife and children; and Francesca remained exposed to a

succession of the most trying disasters. The wealth of the family

chiefly consisted in their country possessions, and the immense number

of cattle which were bred on those broad lands; and day after day

intelligence was brought to her that one farm-house or another was

burnt or pillaged, the flocks dispersed or destroyed, and the shepherds

murdered by a ruthless soldiery. Terrified peasants made their escape

into the city, and scared the inhabitants of the palace with dreadful

accounts of the death of their companions, and of the destruction of

property which was continually going on. A cry of despair rang from

Mount Soracte to the Alban Hill, extended to the shores of the

Mediterranean, and resounded in the palaces of Rome, carrying dismay to

the hearts of its ruined and broken-spirited nobles.

Francesca received the tidings with an aching heart indeed; for her

compassion for the sufferings of others did not permit her to remain

unmoved amidst such dire misfortunes. Still she never lost her habitual

composure; her only occupation was to console the mourners: her first

impulse on these occasions to bless God, and accept at His hands all

that His providence ordained. It was well that she was resigned, and

had learned the lesson of courage at the foot of the Cross; for, like

a flood at spring-tide, her afflictions were increasing every day,

threatening to overwhelm all landmarks but those of an indomitable

faith. One fatal morning, a troop of savage ruffians, drunk with rage,

and vociferating blasphemies, broke into the palace, clamouring after

Lorenzo, and threatening to torture the servants if they did not

instantly reveal his place of concealment; and ended by carrying away

Baptista, who clung in vain to his mother's neck, and was only parted

from her by force. When they had succeeded in tearing him away from

her arms, they proceeded to pillage, and all but to destroy, the

time-honoured residence of the Ponziani. In the space of a few hours

that gorgeous abode was turned into a heap of ruins. Bereft of her

husband, of her son, and of all the conveniences of life, Francesca,

with her two younger children, remained alone and unprotected; for her

brother-in-law, Paluzzo, who might have been a support to her in that

dreadful moment, was still a prisoner in the tyrant's hands, and her

innocent boy shared the same fate. It is not exactly known how long

his captivity lasted; but it may be supposed that means were found of

effecting his release, and sending him to Lorenzo; for it is mentioned

that, at the period when the troubles were at an end, and peace restored

to the city of Rome, the father and the son returned together.

In the mean time, Francesca took shelter in a corner of her ruined

habitation; and there, with Evangelista and Agnese, she managed to

live in the most complete seclusion. These two children were now their

mother's only comfort, as their education was her principal occupation.

Evangelista, as he advanced in age, in no way belied the promise of his

infancy. He lived in spirit with the angels and saints, and seemed more

fitted for their society than for any earthly companionship. "To be with

God" was his only dream of bliss. Though scarcely nine years old, he

already helped his mother in all the pains she took with Agnese's

education