beautiful, sunny land of Portugal. Oranges and purple grapes and all
kinds of lovely fruits ripen in the old gardens. Galleys full of rich
merchandise come sailing across the blue, blue sea and touch at the port
of Lisbon. All along the banks of the River Tagus are the big houses of
the nobility. It is in one of these houses that there lives a boy called
Fernando.
Fernando is one of those boys who will always have a good time. He is
very clever and quick, handsome, and full of life. He gets on
wonderfully well at school, and he has a fine time in the holidays, for
his people lead a gay life--feasts, sports, the chase, grand parties of
every sort. Fernando has the chance of seeing a good deal of life, for
he is the kind of boy the grown-ups are always ready to take out. He
gets a lot of admiration, and he enjoys everything to the full.
But, do you know, when he is alone there is a certain idea that often
comes to him, and he sits on his window-sill and gazes away across the
purple hills, and thinks and thinks and thinks. The idea is this: that,
after all, this pleasure and gaiety is not worth much; it's all rather
selfish and greedy and stupid. There must be something more worth while
in life. For one thing, there's _God_. How little we know of God! And
yet there is a lot to be learnt and understood about Him if only there
was time and quiet and books, and not all this bustle of parties and
grand people. Surely God wants men to get to know Him, and not be so
busy pleasing themselves that they quite forget all about Him. Then,
again, how rotten it would be to die and feel you had _done_ nothing in
life but please yourself! After all, there's no end of things to be done
to make the world a better, holier, wiser place. Fancy going out of the
world knowing you were leaving it no better than when you came--or
perhaps a little worse. Surely a man must feel rather nervous about
dying, and about the Judgment Day, when he knows he hasn't ever done
anything useful or kind. Why should God give such men the reward of
heaven? _Rewards_ are for people who have _worked hard_; and so is
_rest_. And then, again, when God came to earth and lived among men, He
didn't just spend His time seeking for pleasures; in fact, He seemed
never to think of Himself at all, but always of other people. That
thought held the boy Fernando more than all the others--the thought of
Christ, Who could have made Himself a King if He had liked, spending His
days for others, preaching and doing miracles, and the whole long night
out under the stars, under the whispering olive-trees talking to God.
These thoughts used to come to Fernando when he was quite a little chap,
and he had a kind of idea that when he was a man he would give himself
to God. But when he began to grow up a bit, and got about thirteen or
fourteen, he found that if he didn't look out he would get so keen on
the life of pleasure that he would become like the gay young men about
him, and quite forget all about God. He began to see that if he meant to
stick to his good ideas he must _do something_ about it before it was
too late. So, after a very hard struggle, he promised God the whole of
himself, with all his love and all the keen, strong desire within him to
do great things. He knew it would mean giving up all the pleasures that
filled his life, and all the riches and glory that would some day be
his. But somehow nothing mattered so long as he obeyed this sense that
God was calling.
Of course, his people told him he was a young fool, and did all they
could to stop him; but he stuck to his idea, and at the age of fifteen
he was admitted to a monastery of Canons, just outside the city, and
exchanged his rich clothes for the white habit.
It was a beautiful monastery, full of holy men and hundreds of wonderful
books, and in the quiet and peace young Fernando was very happy. He felt
he had really got near to God. He worked so hard at his studies that by
the time he had become a young man he was admired by all the Canons, who
thought him very clever and gifted, and told each other that some day he
would be a famous scholar and do great things. Fernando himself felt
that God had given him the gift of preaching; and that if he went out
and preached he would be able to attract great crowds to listen, and win
souls for God; so he worked and worked to learn all he could, so as to
be ready to stand up and defend the Christian Faith against heretics.
Fernando had gone to another great monastery at Coimbra, and had been
there eight years, when something happened which was the beginning of a
great change in his life--the beginning of a great adventure.
One day five dusty wayfarers tramped into the town and stopped at the
little house of the Franciscans, not far from the monastery of the White
Canons. The five strangers were really five heroes, for they were five
of St. Francis's Friars, bound on a quest so thrilling and so dangerous
that they felt quite sure they would never come back. They were going to
Morocco, in Africa, to preach to the heathen, and with shining eyes they
spoke of dying there, for the love of Christ, and winning the martyr's
crown! Full of joy they went on their way; but without knowing it they
had set on fire the heart of the young Canon, Fernando. In the quiet of
his peaceful monastery he could think of nothing but Africa, the
heathen, the chance of sharing Christ's suffering, and dying for His
sake. It was really the Holy Spirit Who was stirring up those thoughts
in Fernando's heart.
Well, some months later news came that the five brave Friars had been
put to a most horrible death by the Saracens. They were first scourged
till the whiplashes had almost cut their bodies to pieces. Boiling oil
and vinegar was then poured over them, and they were rolled on the
ground, over fragments of broken glass and pottery. They were then
promised their lives if they would give up Christ; but as, of course,
they wouldn't, they were beheaded. These were the first martyrs of St.
Francis's Order.
Can you imagine what Fernando felt when one day a solemn procession
stopped outside the church of his own monastery, and the coffins
containing the bodies of the martyrs were laid within it for a while on
their way to Spain?
Fernando now felt more sure than ever that God was calling him to be a
poor Friar, and to set out barefoot for some hot, dusty land away
beyond the seas, where cruel hands would torture him to death. Once
again he offered himself to God, but this time it took an even harder
struggle than it had before, for he loved his quiet life of prayer and
study in the beautiful monastery even more than he had loved the gay
life of his boyhood. Still, he did not _give in to himself_.
Next time the poor Friars came, in their old, patched habits, to beg at
the rich monastery, can you imagine their surprise when one of the most
learned and famous young Canons came out to them, in his stately white
habit, his beautiful face lighted up with a great resolve, and asked
them if they would give him a brown habit, and make him a Friar, and
send him to the Saracen country to win a martyr's crown?
Of course, they were delighted, and promised to bring him a habit the
very next day.
Fernando had a hard job to persuade the Canons to let him go. But at
last they did; and once more he turned his back on a happy home and set
out on an unknown adventure. As he left the monastery, one of the
Canons, a great friend of his, called after him: "Go--go! You will
doubtless become a Saint!" And Fernando called back to him: "When you
hear that I am a Saint give glory to God!" for he knew very well that it
is only God Who can make a man into a Saint, and that the man's own
efforts can never do it.
It must have been a great change for Fernando to find himself in the
poor little huts belonging to the Friars, and obliged to go barefoot,
dressed in a rough habit and cord, with only scraps of food to eat,
begged from the houses of the rich. These Friars were only poor,
ignorant men--very holy, but with no learning or refinement. They did
not know Fernando was a very clever man, a scholar. Of course, he did
not tell them, but humbly took his place as the newest and least
important of the brothers, never letting them see that he missed the
wonderful library, or the beautiful music of the monastery, or the quiet
cell where he had been able to pray and work in peace. So as to start
life quite fresh, he even gave up his noble name, Fernando, and took the
name of "Antony." So now we will begin to call him St. Antony.
[Illustration: S. FRANCIS RECEIVES THE MARKS OF THE PASSION.
_See page 81._]
Of course, the one thing he kept thinking about was the quest of the
martyr's crown, and at last he got his Superiors to send him, with one
companion, to the Saracen country. But now came the greatest
disappointment of his life, for no sooner had he got there than he fell
ill. All the winter he lay between life and death, with a terrible
fever, so ill that he could do nothing. He knew that he was now so weak
that he would never be able to go and preach to the Saracens and be
martyred. He would have to go home again, a failure. This was much
harder to him than any danger or suffering, and the way he bore it,
cheerfully and patiently for the love of Christ, made him much more
pleasing to God than anything else. For God loves humble people, who are
willing to do His Will, instead of choosing for themselves.
Seeing that God wanted his life rather than his death, St. Antony
decided to go back to his own country and become as strong and well as
possible. So he set sail. But when God sees that a man has altogether
given up his own will, He takes full control of his journey through
life, and makes things happen to show the man what to do. In this case
God made St. Antony's ship get driven ashore on the island of Sicily.
Here there happened to be a small house belonging to the Franciscans. It
was while St. Antony was resting there that he heard that there was
going to be a great chapter (or general meeting) of the Friars, at
Assisi, and that St. Francis would be there; so he asked leave to go,
and then set forth. This was to be the beginning of a new adventure.
When he got to Assisi he found two thousand Friars collected there for
the chapter. The country people were providing all their food free.
You can imagine what St. Antony felt when he saw St. Francis! But when
St. Francis called for volunteers to go on a dangerous mission to the
fierce Germans, it must have cost him an awful lot to keep quiet. But he
had learnt his lesson--God did not want of him a glorious death, only a
patient life.
When the chapter came to an end all the Friars dispersed, some going
gladly off on their dangerous quests, others collecting in little bands
under their "ministers," as the head ones were called, and starting to
tramp back to their friaries.
But St. Antony stood all alone. He had no brave quest to follow; no
minister looked for him to go home with a party of cheerful Friars; no
one cared what became of the young Portuguese stranger.
So St. Antony asked one of the ministers to take him and "form him in
the practice of religious discipline." The minister little knew the
wonderful gifts of this pale young stranger, with the beautiful, sad
face, and sent him to a humble friary on the top of a steep, rocky
mountain. There were only a few simple Friars there. One of them had
hewed out a little cave in the rock. This he gave to St. Antony, who
made it his cell. There he spent most of his day in prayer. But one job
he specially made his own. What do you think it was? Why, washing up the
plates and greasy dishes.
He didn't tell the Friars anything about himself, and of course they
never guessed that their new brother, who always chose the meanest jobs,
was a nobleman's son and a famous scholar of one of the greatest
monasteries in Portugal.
For a whole year St. Antony lived like this. Do you think he wished
himself back in the beautiful monastery in Portugal, with his books and
his clever, interesting friends? No; for he loved what was God's Will
for him above all things. People should not pine for the past, nor be
impatient for the future; they should live heart and soul in the
present, because the present is always what has just been provided by
God, and so it is the best possible thing.
But God meant His faithful servant to be made known, and I will tell
you, now, the wonderful way in which He made it happen.
In the town, not far from St. Antony's little friary, there was one day
a meeting of Franciscan and Dominican Friars for an important ceremony.
After the service the Superior asked the Dominicans, who were clever men
and good preachers, to preach a sermon. But they all said they were not
prepared; and so did the Franciscans. So the Superior turned to St.
Antony, who had come as a companion of his Minister, and ordered him to
preach. St. Antony tried to get out of it, but, finding he must obey, he
walked slowly up into the pulpit.
The Friars did not expect much of a sermon. This was only poor Brother
Antony, whose chief job was washing dishes.
St. Antony, ready to _do his best_ for God, did not think of himself a
bit. He just turned over in his mind what would be the best thing to
preach on so as to help his brothers and bring honour and glory to his
God. By the time he was in the pulpit the Holy Spirit had put a text
into his mind. He gave it out in his clear, ringing voice: "For us
Christ became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross." Then he
began to preach.
The Friars sat up and stared. The young, unknown Friar was pouring forth
a wonderful flood of eloquence, full of the deepest thought, and showing
such learning as none of them possessed. Only a scholar could preach
like that; and only a scholar who was full of the fire of the Holy Ghost
could move the hearts of his hearers as this man did!
The Friars and their Superiors sat spellbound. They quite forgot the
preacher, and were carried away by his words into a greater love of God.
When at last he ceased, and walked quietly down from the pulpit, his
eyes on the ground, deep humility in his heart, his hearers turned to
each other in wonder and delight, and all said they had never heard such
a preacher in their lives.
Of course, the Superiors hurried off and told St. Francis all about it,
and you can imagine how delighted St. Francis was to hear he had such a
wonderful man among his Friars. It ended in St. Francis sending St.
Antony to do what many years ago he had longed to do--that is, preach to
the heretics who were teaching wrong things about the Christian Faith.
Still as humble as ever, St. Antony set out to tramp along the roads to
the places at which he was to preach. Through Italy he went, and then
France, and then Spain, and back to Italy, and on these journeys the
most wonderful things happened. Not only did God give him the power of
preaching such marvellous sermons that the people crowded in thousands
to hear him, but He gave him the power to do miracles, like He once gave
to His Apostles. As to the heretics, they simply couldn't stand up
against St. Antony, and thousands of them either had to stop their false
teaching and keep quiet, or else were converted and came over to St.
Antony's side. Because of this he got the name, "Hammer of Heretics."
But it wasn't only to the heretics he preached. The ordinary people used
to come in such crowds that there simply wasn't room in the churches for
them, and St. Antony had to preach out in the fields and plains. Rich
and poor used to come, clergy and ignorant peasants. The shopkeepers
used to shut up their shops. The people were so much moved by his
sermons that enemies forgave each other, men paid their debts, or
creditors forgave their debtors; wicked people gave up their sinful
life, and started trying to _do their best_ to become pleasing to God.
One day a band of twelve brigands who lived in the forest and robbed
passers-by heard about the famous preacher. So they disguised
themselves, and went to see if what was said of him was true. When he
began to preach he completely won their hearts, and they repented of
their sinful life. After the sermon they spoke to St. Antony, and
confessed what wicked men they had been. He told them they must never go
back to their robber life, and he said that those who gave it up would
go some day to heaven, but that if any went back to it they would have
miserable ends. And, sure enough, some who went back soon died horrible
deaths. St. Antony told them to try and do something to make up for
having been so wicked. One of them, he said, was to go twelve times in
pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Peter and St. Paul at Rome. Years and
years after, when this robber was an old, old man, he met a Friar on the
road, and he told him how when he was young he had heard St. Antony
preach, and how he had told him to go to Rome twelve times. "And now I
am on my way back from Rome for the twelfth time," he said. That shows
you what power St. Antony had.
There's no time now to tell you of all the miracles he did; but they
were so wonderful that he came to be called the "Wonder-worker," and it
showed everyone that God was with him.
And do you think all this honour and glory, and big crowds running after
him, and great men praising him, made St. Antony proud or even the least
bit pleased with himself? No; he stayed just as humble and retiring as
he was in the days when he used to wash dishes in the mountain friary.
But St. Antony's hard life was beginning to tell on his health. For a
long time he had secretly suffered from a very painful disease. It was
now about nine years since the day he preached his first sermon and was
sent forth by St. Francis on his great mission. As the summer drew on
St. Antony ceased to preach, so as not to hinder the people's work in
the vineyards. Also, he knew the end of his life was near. He longed for
a little peace and solitude and silence; he longed to be alone with God
to prepare for his great journey into the next world.
There was a nobleman called Count Tiso, who had a beautiful estate not
far from Padua, a city St. Antony loved very much. Here St. Antony went
for a time of rest. There was no rocky hill-side to make a cave which he
might use as his cell, so he got Count Tiso to make him a cell in the
great branches of a walnut-tree. These branches spread out not far above
the ground, and between them Count Tiso wove reeds and willow twigs, and
made a lovely little house for St. Antony. The thick, leafy branches
above sheltered him from the hot sun; a few rough steps led up to it;
and here St. Antony could spend his days in complete solitude.
But one evening when he had come down to have his evening meal with his
companions, in the little friary near by, he was taken very ill, and his
pain was so great that he could no longer sit upright.
He knew he was soon to die, and he longed to die at his beloved city,
Padua. He was really much too ill to be moved, but when his companions
saw how much he wanted this, they fetched a rough ox-cart and laid St.
Antony in it.
I told you how St. Antony had longed to share Christ's sufferings and
die a martyr's death--well, now was his chance. He was in such frightful
pain that any tiny movement hurt him, and now he had to go mile after
mile in a rough cart with no springs, jolting over the stony roads, the
broiling Italian sun beating down upon him, the thick white dust choking
his parched throat, the flies tormenting him. You can't imagine the
agony he must have suffered. And yet he never grumbled--he was _glad_ of
this chance of suffering; he felt he was really taking up his cross and
following his beloved Master along the painful way to Calvary.
When the cart had nearly reached Padua, a Friar who had been sent to
inquire after St. Antony met the little procession. He saw at once that
St. Antony would not live to reach the city, so he made the Friars lift
him from the cart and carry him to a little house of the Friars near by.
It had been St. Antony's last great wish to die at Padua; but even this
he gave up patiently and gladly and without a murmur.
In the little cell he lay, his pain getting worse and worse, and his
weakness greater and greater. The Friars gave him the last rites of
religion. "Then, raising his eyes," the old book says, "he looked
fixedly on high. As he continued to gaze steadfastly towards heaven, the
Friars asked him what he saw. He answered: 'I see my Lord.'"
Not long after, like one falling quietly asleep, he breathed out his
last breath. "His loving, holy soul quitted the body, and, conducted by
the good Jesus, entered into the joy of his Lord."
The little cell where St. Antony died still stands, and people can go in
and look on the very walls his eyes looked on, the very floor on which
his body lay. It is such a holy spot that a church has been built over
it, and the little square cell stands inside the church.
That is the story of one of the holiest and humblest men who ever lived.
* * * * *
Very quietly the Cubs lay down on their palliasses, and fell asleep
thinking of their new friend, St. Antony.
THE EIGHTH DAY
A pouring day! Luckily the Cubs remained in the sunny land of dreams
till eight.
Meals had to be in the bell-tent. This was great fun! There was just
room for a council circle, only you had to be careful not to put your
feet in other people's porridge, or let your head rub against the tent.
If you did, a stream of water soon began to run down your neck, and
Akela said it _served you right_.
Every now and then the rain _nearly_ stopped, and everybody dashed out
for a few minutes; but no sooner were you out, than the weather-fairy
seemed to say, "Yah! Sold again!" and down came another sheet of rain
that sent everyone scuttling for shelter.
The Cubs decided that it would be a good day to have a concert, and that
there might be a rehearsal in the morning and the grand performance
later on. So they sat round and made a lovely row; and some people sang
some very pretty solos--but I will tell you about them when I tell you
about the grand performance.
It cleared up for a little while before dinner, and the Cubs went out
for a search for dry wood. Some of them went down to the shore, and
there they found some boys with donkeys and ponies for hire, so they had
some lovely rides up and down the sand, and no one fell off. Just as
they got home the rain started again in torrents.
In the tent they found two visitors--old friends who had once known them
in London. This made them think how lucky it was they had had a
rehearsal, for now they would be able to give the visitors a concert,
and then they would not be disappointed because of the rain. So after
dinner the concert began.
First the whole Pack shouted the camp chorus--the same one which I told
you they sang in the train. They then sang "John Peel." Then Bunny sang
a solo called "Hush thee, my Baby." This was followed by a very pretty
duet by Patsy and Mac--"'Tis the Last Rose of Summer" (Mac sang the alto
very well). Then the whole Pack sang a song called "Robin Hood," which
Akela had once made up for them. After that Bunny recited Brutus' speech
from Shakespeare's play, "Julius Cæsar"--he made you feel he really
_was_ Brutus, and everyone clapped him. Then four Cubs sang "Annie
Laurie," in parts. Then they all made Spongey sing a song. Spongey was
very shy, and said he couldn't. But in the end he sang a very short
song, in a very deep voice, called, "Oh-oh-oh, it's a Loverly War." Of
course, everyone cheered themselves hoarse.
Then the Pack sang "The Golden Vanity" right through all its many
verses. This was followed by a solo from Mac--a sad little Irish
song--and another duet by Mac and Patsy, "When Irish Eyes are Smiling,"
followed by "Oh Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast," sung in parts by Jack,
Patsy, and Mac. Then everyone sang choruses.
The visitors enjoyed it very much.
By the end of the programme it was quite impossible for the Cubs to sit
still for another moment. You can't get much exercise in a wet
bell-tent. So Akela had a bright idea. If you were _in_ the sea the rain
couldn't wet you--what about a bathe? Everyone cheered, and got into
their coats and macs, and ran down to the Stable, where they changed
into their bathing things. The sea felt awfully warm, and everyone
shrieked and splashed and made such a row that the visitors, all shut up
stuffy and cross in their lodgings, looked out of their windows and
wondered who _could_ be so cheerful on such a day.