Brother Francis Part 1

Brother Francis.

by Eileen Douglas.

PREFACE.

The following pages have been written by my request with a view to making the Soldiers of The Salvation Army somewhat familiar with the life-story of one of the most remarkable men this world has ever seen.

While many and varied will be the opinions respecting the methods employed by Francis of a.s.sisi, and while some will doubtless strongly dissent from these methods, yet I think no serious follower of Jesus Christ can do otherwise than admire the sincerity, devotion and sacrifice of the man; and further, there can be, I think, no two opinions as to his having taught and manifested to the world what it means to be possessed entirely by the Saviour's spirit.

And what did that spirit produce? Surely it was the same entire devotion of our all to the service of G.o.d and humanity which we Salvationists daily teach. The difference between our spirit and that of the subject of this Memoir is, I trust, very slight, although the manifestations of it are widely diverse. We are quite as extreme in our demands as to poverty and solitude as he was, only that we do not value these things for their own sake as he did. We daily induce persons to leave earthly possessions and prospects in order to go and seek the salvation of the poor, amongst whom their future life is to be spent; and we require our Officers to consecrate all they have to the service of the Kingdom of G.o.d right through their career, and to live always in a state of readiness to be sent away from all they have known and loved--not, indeed, to live in any cloister or hermitage, but in the solitude amidst the crowd which must ever be more or less the lot of the highest leaders of men.

The system established by Francis was not adaptable to family life, whereas it is our joy to show how as complete a devotion to the good of others can be manifested by the father or mother, who spend most of their hours in toil for the support of those dependent upon them, as by the monks and nuns of old, even when they walked in entire harmony with the rules of their various orders.

We have demonstrated that most people by the very fact of their being engaged in business, and having to fulfil the duties of family life, acquire extra power to capture for G.o.d those who are still in the ranks of worldliness and selfishness.

Nevertheless, we must always expect G.o.d to require from time to time witnesses who might step out of the ordinary path altogether in order to revolutionise the world for Him. It were better far to aspire to so high and holy a calling than to excuse in ourselves any less self-denial, any easier life than this man's boundless love to Christ constrained him to adopt.

It is most melancholy to reflect that Francis died almost broken-hearted over what he felt to be the unfaithfulness of his brethren. We believe that G.o.d has guided us to plans which, being consistent with the possibilities of modern human life, are capable of being carried out fully and always. But the vital question is the maintenance of that intense spirit of personal devotion to the good Shepherd and His lost sheep, which can alone render any such scheme of life possible. To that great end may this book minister, and G.o.d grant us grace and wisdom to raise up generation after generation of soldiers, who will not only drink in, but fully carry out that spirit.

WILLIAM BOOTH.

_International Headquarters, London._

BROTHER FRANCIS.

OR,

LESS THAN THE LEAST.

CHAPTER I.

a.s.sISI AND FRANCIS.

"Hands love clasped through charmed hours, Feet that press the bruised flowers, Is there naught for you to dare, That ye may his signet wear?"

You will not be likely to find a.s.sisi marked on any ordinary map of Italy. It is far too unimportant a place for that. That is to say, geographically unimportant. a.s.sisi lies half-way up the Apennines. The houses, which are built of a curious kind of rosy-tinted stone, press so closely together one above the other on the rocks, so that each house seems trying to look over its neighbours' head. The result of this is that from every window you have one of the grandest views in Europe. Above, the mountains tower into the sky, and yet they are not so close as to suggest crowding. Beneath lies stretched out the Umbrian plain, the centre and heart of Italy. With its rich harvests, plentiful streams and luxuriant vegetation, it might well be called the Eden of Italy.

The atmosphere is clear and transparent, and the nights, with their dark blue cloudless skies, studded with myriads of s.h.i.+ning, sparkling stars, are better imagined than described!

[Sidenote: _Like a Prince._]

It was midway up one of the narrow steep little streets, in one of those rosy-tinted houses, that Francis Bernardone was born, about six hundred years ago. Only he wasn't Francis just then. He was John. As a matter of fact there was no such name as Francis known in a.s.sisi, and some think it was invented there and then for the first time by Pietro Bernardone.

When his baby was born, Pietro was far away, travelling in France. He was a merchant, and his business often took him away from home. As there were no letters or telegrams to tell him the news, it was not till he got back that he found he had a baby son, who had been duly christened John at the parish church. But Pietro had no idea of letting a little matter of this kind stand in his way, and he told his wife, Pica, that the baby was not to be John, but Francis or Francesca. And Francis he was.

The neighbours didn't like it at all. Why should Pietro set himself up to be so much better than other folks that he must needs invent a name for his baby? In what was his baby better than any of theirs? And so forth. Oh, a.s.sisi was a very natural little town! From his babyhood these neighbours sat in judgment on little Francis. There was nothing much about him that pleased them. They disapproved of his dress, which was rich and fine, and always according to the latest fas.h.i.+on; of his idle, free, careless ways, of his handsome face, of his superabundance of pocket-money.

"Your son lives like a prince," a neighbour said once to Pica.

"What is that to you!" retorted Pica, "our son does indeed live like a prince. Have patience, the day may come when he will live like the Son of G.o.d."

But in truth that day seemed long in coming, and the neighbours might well be forgiven when they said among themselves that young Francis Bernardone was being utterly spoiled. It was quite true. Frank, gay, good-tempered, easily led, fond of all kinds of beauty and soft living, the life of indulgence and ease and pleasure that he was brought up in was not the one that would best fit him for the battle of life. Pietro was rich, and he was also exceeding proud of his handsome gay son. It delighted him more than anything else to hear people say that he looked like a prince of royal blood, and he denied him nothing that money could procure.

[Sidenote: _Young Manhood._]

As he grew up into young manhood, Francis nominally a.s.sisted his father in his business as cloth merchant. His duties, however, were very light, and he was known more as a leader among the gay youth of a.s.sisi than as a rising business man. He was always chosen as the leader of the sumptuous feasts that the young men of that era wiled away the evening hours with. After the feast was over, Francis used to lead his band out into the streets, and there under those glorious starry skies they finished the night singing the then popular love songs of France and Italy. As Francis was intensely musical, and possessed a very fine voice, he was indispensable at these revelries.

He was almost twenty-five before he had his first serious thought. Up to then life had been an enchanted dream. Francis, with his handsome face, beautiful courteous manners, and full pockets the centre of it.

He had seen life outside a.s.sisi, for he had fought for his country and suffered imprisonment. He had travelled a little, was fairly well educated, and what was rare in those days spoke and sang in the French language. Of G.o.d he seems to have had no knowledge whatever. His kindly, polite nature led him to much almsgiving, but that was merely the outcome of a disposition which hated to see suffering.

Francis' lack of religion is not much to be wondered at when we look at the state of the church in his time. Christianity had become old, its first freshness had worn off, and its primitive teaching had fallen into decay. A Christian's life was an easy one, and the service rendered was more of church-going and almsgiving, than purity of heart and life. In many instances those who filled the office of teacher and preacher were corrupt, and lived only for themselves, and the whole tendency of the times was to the most extreme laxity.

When almost twenty-five years old, Francis had a very severe illness.

For weeks he lay at death's door, and for weeks after all danger was pa.s.sed, he was confined to the house too weak to move. As his weary convalescence dragged itself along, one absorbing desire filled his mind. If only he could get out of doors, and stand once again in the suns.h.i.+ne, and feast his eyes on the landscape below him! Francis, like all Italians, was a pa.s.sionate lover of his native country, and at last, one day, he wearily and painfully crawled out.

[Sidenote: _Things that Perish._]

But what was the matter? The suns.h.i.+ne was there. It flooded the country. The breeze that was to bring him new life and vigor played among his chestnut curls. The mountains towered in their n.o.ble grandeur. The wide Umbrian plain lay stretched out at his feet. The skies were as blue, and the flowers as gay and sweet, as ever his fancy painted them. But the young man turned away with a sickening sense of disappointment and failure.

"Things that perish," he said mournfully to himself, and thought bitterly of his past life with its gaiety and frivolity. It, too, was among the "things that perish." Life was a dreary emptiness.

It was the old, old story. "Thou hast made us for Thyself, oh G.o.d, and the heart is restless till it finds its rest in Thee." That tide which flows at least once in the life of every human being was surging round Francis. Happy they who, leaving all else, cast themselves into the infinite ocean of the Divine will and design.

CHAPTER II.

A CHANGE.

"In this easy, painless life, Free from struggle, care, and strife, Ever on my doubting breast, Lies the shadow of unrest; This no path that Jesus trod-- Can the smooth way lead to G.o.d?"

As health returned, Francis determined that he would no longer waste his life. He had spent a quarter of a century in ease, and pleasure, and amus.e.m.e.nt. Now, some way or other, there should be a change.

Religion to Francis meant acting up to all the duties of his church.

This he had already done, and not for a moment did he dream that there was in what he called "religion" any balm for a sore and wounded spirit. It never occurred to him to seek in prayer the mind of the Lord concerning his future. Oh, no, it was many a long day before Francis knew the real meaning of the word prayer. He was convinced of his wrong, and determined to right it. That was as far as he had got.

What to do was now the great question.

Just about this time, a n.o.bleman of a.s.sisi, Walter of Brienne, was about to start for Apulia, to take part in a war which was going on there. All at once it occurred to Francis that he would go too. He was naturally courageous, and visions filled his mind of the deeds he would do, and the honours that would be bestowed upon him.