A Short History of Monks and Monasteries written by Alfred Wesley Wishart

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V

_THE MENDICANT FRIARS_

Abraham Lincoln only applied a general principle to a specific case when
he said, "This nation cannot long endure half slave and half free."
Glaring inconsistencies between faith and practice will eventually
destroy any institution, however lofty its ideal or noble its
foundation. God suffers long and is kind, but His forbearance is not
limitless. Monasticism, as has been shown, was never free from serious
inconsistency, from moral dualism. But the power of reform prolonged its
existence. It was constantly producing fresh models of its ancient
ideals. It had a hidden reserve-force from which it supplied shining
examples of a living faith and a self-denying love, just at the time
when it seemed as if the system was about to perish forever. When these
fresh exhibitions of monastic fidelity likewise became tarnished, when
men had tired of them and predicted the speedy collapse of the
institution, forth from the cloister came another body of monkish
recruits, to convince the world that monasticism was not dead; that it
did not intend to die; that it was mightier than all its enemies. The
day came, however, when the world lost its confidence in an institution
which required such constant reforming to keep it pure, which demanded
so much cleansing to keep it clean. Ideals that could so quickly lose
their influence for good came to be looked upon with suspicion.

At the beginning of the thirteenth century we are confronted by the
anomaly of a church grossly corrupt but widely obeyed. She is nearing
the pinnacle of her power and the zenith of her glory, although the
parochial clergy have sunk into vice and incapacity, and the monks, as a
class, are lazy, ignorant and notoriously corrupt. Two things,
especially, command the attention,--first, the immorality and laxity of
the monks; and second, the growth of heresies and the tendency toward
open schism. The necessity of reform was clearly apprehended by the
church as well as by the heretical parties, but, since the church had
such a hold upon society, those who sought to reform the monasteries by
returning to old beliefs and ancient customs were much more in favor
than those who left the church and opposed her from the outside. The
impossibility of substantial, internal reform had not yet come to be
generally recognized. As time passed the conviction that it was of no
use to attempt reforms from the inside gained ground; then the
separatists multiplied, and the shedding of blood commenced. The world
had to learn anew that it was futile to put new wine into old bottles or
to patch new cloth on an old garment.

"It is the privilege of genius," says Trench, "to evoke a new creation,
where to common eyes all appears barren and worn out." Francis and
Dominic evoked this new creation; but although the monk now will appear
in a new garb, he will prove himself to be about the same old character
whom the world has known a great many years; when this discovery is made
monasticism is doomed. Perplexed Europe will anxiously seek some means
of destruction, but God will have Luther ready to aid in the solution of
the problem.

_Francis Bernardone_, 1182-1226 _A.D._.

Saint Francis, the founder of the Franciscan Order, was born at Assisi,
a walled town of Umbria, in Italy. His father, Peter Bernardone, or
Bernardo, was in France on business when his son was born and named. On
his return, or, as some say, at a later time, he changed his son's name
from John to Francis. His wealth enabled him to supply Francis with the
funds necessary to maintain his leadership among gay companions.
Catholic writers are fond of describing the early years of their saints
as marked by vice in order to portray them as miracles of grace. It is
therefore uncertain whether Francis was anything worse than a happy,
joyous lad, who loved fine clothes, midnight songs and parties of
pleasure. He was certainly a very popular and courteous lad, very much
in love with the world. During a short service in the army he was taken
prisoner. After his release he fell sick, and experienced a temporary
disgust with his past life. With his renewed health his love of
festivities and dress returned.

Walking out one day, dressed in a handsome new suit, he met a poor and
ill-clad soldier; moved to pity, he exchanged his fine clothes for the
rags of the stranger. That night Francis dreamed of a splendid castle,
with gorgeous banners flying from its ramparts, and suits of armor
adorned with the cross. "These," said a voice, "are for you and for your
soldiers." We are told that this was intended to be taken spiritually
and was prophetic of the Begging Friars, but Francis misunderstood the
dream, taking it as a token of military achievements. The next day he
set off mounted on a fine horse, saying as he left, "I shall be a great
prince." But his weak frame could not endure such rough usage and he was
taken sick at Spoleto. Again he dreamed. This time the vision revealed
his misinterpretation of the former message, and so, on his recovery, he
returned somewhat crestfallen to Assisi, where he gave his friends a
farewell feast. Thus at the threshold of his career we note two
important facts,--disease and dreams. All through his life he had these
fits of sickness, attended by dreams; and throughout his life he was
guided by these visions. Neander remarks: "It would be a matter of some
importance if we could be more exactly informed with regard to the
nature of his disease and the way in which it affected his physical and
mental constitution. Perhaps it might assist us to a more satisfactory
explanation of the eccentric vein in his life, that singular mixture of
religious enthusiasm bordering insanity; but we are left wholly in
the dark."

Francis now devoted himself to his father's business, but dreams and
visions continued to distress him. His spiritual fervor increased daily.
He grieved for the poor and gave himself to the care of the sick,
especially the lepers. During a visit to Rome he became so sad at the
sight of desperate poverty that he impetuously flung his bag of gold
upon the altar with such force as to startle the worshipers. He went out
from the church, exchanged his clothes for a beggar's rags, and stood
for hours asking alms among a crowd of filthy beggars.

But though Francis longed to associate himself in some way with the
lowest classes, he could obtain no certain light upon his duty. While
prostrated before the crucifix, in the dilapidated church of St.
Damian, in Assisi, he heard a voice saying, "Francis, seest thou not
that my house is in ruins? Go and restore it for me." Again it is said
that this pointed to his great life-work of restoring spiritual power to
the church, but he again accepted the message in a literal sense.
Delighted to receive a command so specific, the kneeling Francis
fervently responded, "With good will, Lord," and gladly entered upon the
task of repairing the church of St. Damian. "Having fortified himself by
the sign of the cross," he took a horse and a valuable bundle of goods
belonging to his father and sold both at Falingo. Instead of turning the
proceeds over to his father, Francis offered them to the priest of St.
Damian, who, fearing the father's displeasure, refused to accept the
stolen funds. The young zealot, "who had utter contempt for money,"
threw the gold on one of the windows of the church. Such is the story as
gleaned from Catholic sources. The heretics, who have criticised Francis
for this conduct, are answered by the following ingenious but dangerous
sophistry: "It is certainly quite contrary to the ordinary law of
justice for one man to take for himself the property of another; but if
Almighty God, to whom all things belong, and for whom we are only
stewards, is pleased to dispense with this His own law in a particular
case, and to bestow what He has hitherto given to one upon another, He
confers at the same time a valid title to the gift, and it is no robbery
in him who has received it to act upon that title."

Fearing his father's wrath, Francis hid himself in the priest's room,
and contemporary authors assure us that when the irate parent entered,
Francis was miraculously let into the wall. Wading (1731 A.D.) says the
hollow place may still be seen in the wall.

After a month, the young hero, confident of his courage to face his
father, came forth pale and weak, only to be stoned as a madman by the
people. His father locked him up in the house, but the tenderer
compassion of his mother released him from his bonds, and he found
refuge with the priest. When his father demanded his return, Francis
tore off his clothes and, as he flung the last rag at the feet of his
astounded parent, he exclaimed: "Peter Bernardone was my father; I have
but one father, He that is in Heaven." The crowd was deeply moved,
especially when they saw before them the hair shirt which Francis had
secretly worn under his garments. Gathering up all that was left to him
of his son, the father sadly departed, leaving the young enthusiast to
fight his own way through the world. Many times after that, the parents,
who tenderly watched over the lad in sickness and prayed for his
recovery, saw their beloved son leading his barefooted beggars through
the streets of his native town. But he will never more sing his gay
songs underneath their roof or sally forth with his merry companions in
search of pleasure. Francis was given a laborer's cloak, upon which he
made the sign of a cross with some mortar, "thus manifesting what he
wished to be, a half-naked poor one, and a crucified man." Such was the
saint, in 1206, in his twenty-fifth year.

Francis now went forth, singing sacred songs, begging his food, and
helping the sick and the poor. He was employed "in the vilest affairs of
the scullery" in a neighboring monastery. At this time he clothed
himself in the monk's dress, a short tunic, a leathern girdle, shoes and
a staff. He waited upon lepers and kissed their disgusting ulcers. Yet
more, he instantly cured a dreadfully cancerous face by kissing it. He
ate the most revolting messes, reproaching himself for recoiling in
nausea. Thus the pauper of Jesus Christ conquered his pride and
luxurious tastes.

Francis finally returned to repair the church of St. Damian. The people
derided, even stoned him, but he had learned to rejoice in abuse. They
did not know of what stern stuff their fellow-townsman was made. He bore
all their insults meekly, and persevered in his work, carrying stones
with his own hands and promising the blessing of God on all who helped
him in his joyful task. His kindness and smiles melted hatred; derision
turned to admiration. "Many were moved to tears," says his biographers,
"while Francis worked on with cheerful simplicity, begging his
materials, stone by stone, and singing psalms about the streets."

Two years after his conversion, or in 1208, while kneeling in the church
of Sta. Maria dei Angeli, he heard the words of Christ: "Provide neither
gold nor silver nor brass in your purses, neither two coats nor shoes
nor staff, but go and preach." Afterwards, when the meaning of these
words was explained to him, he exclaimed: "This is what I seek for!" He
threw away his wallet, took off his shoes, and replaced his leather
girdle by a cord. His hermit's tunic appearing too delicate, he put on a
coarse, gray robe, reaching to his feet, with sleeves that came down
over his fingers; to this he added a hood, covering his head and face.
Clothing of this character he wore to the end of his life. This was in
1208, which is regarded as the first year of the Order of St. Francis.
The next year Francis gave this habit to those who had joined him.

So the first and chief of Franciscan friars, unattended by mortal
companions, went humbly forth to proclaim the grandeur and goodness of a
God, who, according to monastic teaching, demands penance and poverty of
his creatures as the price of his highest favor and richest blessings.
Nearly seven hundred long years have passed since that eventful day, but
the begging Brothers of Francis still traverse those Italian highways
over which the saint now journeyed with meek and joyous spirit.

"He was not yet far distant from his rising
Before he had begun to make the earth
Some comfort from his mighty virtue feel.
For he in youth his father's wrath incurred
For certain Dame, to whom, as unto death,
The gate of pleasure no one doth unlock;
And was before his spiritual court
_Et coram patre_ unto her united;
Then day by day more fervently he loved her.

* * * * *

But that too darkly I may not proceed,
Francis and Poverty for these two lovers
Take thou henceforward in my speech diffuse."

--_Dante_.

In 1210, with eleven companions, his entire band, Francis went to Rome
to secure papal sanction. Pope Innocent III. was walking in a garden of
the Lateran Palace when a beggar, dusty and pale, confronted him.
Provoked at being disturbed in his thoughts, he drove him away. That
night it was the pope's turn to dream. He saw a falling church supported
by a poor and miserable man. Of course, that man was Francis. Four or
five years later the pope will dream the same thing again. Then the poor
man will be Dominic. In the morning he sent for the monk whom he had
driven from him as a madman the day before. Standing before his holiness
and the college of cardinals, Francis pleaded his cause in a touching
and eloquent parable. His quiet, earnest manner and clear blue eyes
impressed every one. The pope did not give him formal sanction
however--this was left for Honorius III., November 29, 1223--but he
verbally permitted him to establish his order and to continue his
preaching.

Several times Francis set out to preach to the Mohammedans, but failed
to reach his destination. He finally visited Egypt during the siege of
Damietta, and at the risk of his life he went forth to preach to the
sultan encamped on the Nile. He is described by an eye-witness "as an
ignorant and simple man, beloved of God and men." His courage and
personal magnetism won the Mohammedan's sympathy but not his soul.
Although Francis courted martyrdom, and offered to walk through fire to
prove the truth of his message, the Oriental took it all too
good-naturedly to put him to the test, and dismissed him with kindness.

Francis was a great lover of birds. The swallows he called his sisters.
A bird in the cage excited his deepest sympathy. It is said he sometimes
preached to the feathered songsters. Longfellow has cast one of these
homilies into poetic form:

"O brother birds, St. Francis said,
Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.

* * * * *

Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.

He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care."

Like all ascetics, Francis was tempted in visions. One cold night he
fancied he was in a home of his own, with his wife and children around
him. Rushing out of his cell he heaped up seven hills of snow to
represent a wife, four sons and daughters, and two servants. "Make
haste," he cried, "provide clothing for them lest they perish with the
cold," and falling upon the imaginary group, he dispelled the vision of
domestic bliss in the cold embrace of the winter's snow. Mrs. Oliphant
points out the fact that, unlike most of the hermits and monks, Francis
dreams not of dancing girls, but of the pure love of a wife and the
modest joys of a home and children. She beautifully says: "Had he, for
one sweet, miserable moment, gone back to some old imagination and seen
the unborn faces shine beside the never-lighted fire? But Francis does
not say a word of any such trial going on in his heart. He dissipates
the dream by the chill touch of the snow, by still nature hushing the
fiery thoughts, by sudden action, so violent as to stir the blood in his
veins; and then the curtain of prayer and silence falls over him, and
the convent walls close black around."

The experience of the saint on Mount Alverno deserves special
consideration, not merely on account of its singularity, but also
because it affords a striking illustration of the difficulties one
encounters in trying to get at the truth in monastic narratives. Francis
had retired to Mount Alverno, a wild and rugged solitude, to meditate
upon the Lord's passion. For days he had been almost distracted with
grief and holy sympathy. Suddenly a seraph with six wings stood before
him. When the heavenly being departed, the marks of the Crucified One
appeared upon the saint's body. St. Bonaventure says: "His feet and
hands were seen to be perforated by nails in their middle; the heads of
the nails, round and black, were on the inside of the hands, and on the
upper parts of the feet; the points, which were rather long, and which
came out on the opposite sides, were turned and raised above the flesh,
from which they came out." There also appeared on his right side a red
wound, which often oozed a sacred blood that stained his tunic.

This remarkable story has provoked considerable discussion. One's
conclusions respecting its credibility will quite likely be determined
by his general view of numerous similar narratives, and by the degree of
his confidence in the value of human testimony touching such matters.
The incongruities and palpable impostures that seriously impair the
general reliability of monkish historians render it difficult to
distinguish between the truths and errors in their writings.

Some authorities hold that the marks did not appear on St. Francis, and
that the story is without foundation. But Roman writers bring forward
the three early biographers of Francis who claim that the marks did
appear. Pope Alexander IV. publicly averred that he saw the wounds, and
pronounced it heresy to doubt the report. Popes Benedict XI., Sixtus
IV., and Sixtus V. consecrated and canonized the impressions by
instituting a particular festival in their honor. Numerous persons are
said to have seen the marks and to have kissed the nails, after the
death of the saint. Singularly enough, the Dominicans were inclined to
regard the story as a piece of imposture designed to exalt Francis
above Dominic.

But, if it be admitted that the marks did appear, as it is not
improbable, how shall the phenomenon be explained? At least four
theories are held: 1. Fraud; 2. The irresponsible self-infliction of the
wounds; 3. Physical effects due to mental suggestion or some other
psychic cause; 4. Miracle.

1. The temptation is strong to claim a fraud, especially because the
same witnesses who testify to the truth of the tale, also relate such
monstrous, incredible stories, that one is almost forced to doubt
either their integrity or their sanity. But there is no evidence in
support of so serious an indictment. After showing that signs and
portents attend every crisis in history, Mrs. Oliphant says: "Every
great spiritual awakening has been accompanied by phenomena quite
incomprehensible, which none but the vulgar mind can attribute to
trickery and imposture;" but still she herself remains in doubt about
the whole story.

2. Although Mosheim uses the term "fraud," it would seem that he means
rather the irresponsible self-infliction of the wounds. He says: "As he
[Francis] was a most superstitious and fanatical mortal, it is
undoubtedly evident that he imprinted on himself the holy wounds. Paul's
words, 'I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus,' may have
suggested the idea of the fraud." The notion certainly prevailed that
Francis was a sort of second Christ, and a book was circulated showing
how he might be compared to Christ in forty particulars. There are many
things in his biography which, if true, indicate that Francis yearned to
imitate literally the experiences of his Lord.

3. Numerous experiments, conducted by scientific men, have established
the fact that red marks, swellings, blisters, bleeding and wounds have
been produced by mental suggestion. Bjoernstrom, in his work on
"Hypnotism," after recounting various experiments showing the effect of
the imagination on the body, says, respecting the _stigmata_ of the
Middle Ages: "Such marks can be produced by hypnotism without deceit and
without the miracles of the higher powers." Prof. Fisher declares:
"There is no room for the suspicion of deceit. The idea of a strange
physical effect of an abnormal state is more plausible." Trench thinks
this is a reasonable view in the case of a man like Francis, "with a
temperament so irrepressible, of an organization so delicate, permeated
through and through with the anguish of the Lord's sufferings,
passionately and continually dwelling on the one circumstance of his
crucifixion." But others, despairing of any rational solution, cut the
Gordian knot and declare that "the kindest thing to think about Francis
is that he was crazy."

4. Roman Catholics naturally reject all explanations that exclude the
supernatural, for, as Father Candide Chalippe affirms: "Catholics ought
to be cautious in adopting anything coming from heretics; their opinions
are almost always contagious." He therefore holds fast to the miracles
in the lives of the saints, not only because he accepts the evidence,
but because he believes these wonderful stories "add great resplendency
to the merits of the saints, and, consequently, give great weight to the
example they afford us."

It is altogether probable that each one will continue to view the whole
affair as his predispositions and religious convictions direct; some
unconvinced by traditionary evidence and undismayed by charges of
heresy; others devoutly accepting every monkish miracle and marveling at
the obstinacy of unbelief.

Two years after the event just described Francis was carried on a cot
outside the walls of Assisi, where, lifting his hands he blessed his
native city. Some few days later, on October 4, 1226, he passed away,
exclaiming, "Welcome, Sister Death!"

Whatever we may think of the legends that cluster about his life,
Francis himself must not be held responsible for all that has been
written about him. He himself was no phantom or mythical being, but a
real, earnest man who, according to his light, tried to serve his
generation. As he himself said: "A man is just so much and no more as he
is in the sight of God." "Francis appears to me," says Forsyth, "a
genuine, original hero, independent, magnanimous, incorruptible. His
powers seemed designed to regenerate society; but taking a wrong
direction, they sank men into beggars." Through the mist of tradition
the holy beggar and saintly hero shines forth as a loving, gentle soul,
unkind to none but himself. However his biography may be regarded, his
life illustrates the beauty and power of voluntary renunciation,--the
fountain not only of religion but of all true nobility of character. He
may have been ignorant, perhaps grossly so, as Mosheim thinks, but
nevertheless he merits our highest praise for striving honestly to keep
his vow of poverty in the days when worldly monks disgraced their sacred
profession by greed, ambition, and lustful indulgence.

_The Franciscan Orders_

The orders which Francis founded were of three classes:

1. Franciscan Friars or Order of Friars Minor, called also Gray or
Begging Friars. The year in which Francis took the habit, 1208, is
reckoned the first year of the order, but the Rule was not given
until 1210.

This Rule, which has not been preserved, was very simple, and doubtless
consisted of a group of gospel passages, bearing on the vow of poverty,
together with a few precepts about the occupations of the brethren. The
pope was not asked to sanction the Rule but only to give his approbation
to the missions of the little band. Some of the cardinals expressed
their doubts about the mode of life provided for in the rules. "But,"
replied Giovanni di San Paolo, "if we hold that to observe gospel
perfection and make profession of it is an irrational and impossible
innovation, are we not convicted of blasphemy against Christ, the Author
of the Gospel?"

There was also the Rule of 1221, which makes an intermediate stage
between the first Rule and that which was approved by the pope November
29, 1223. The Rule of 1210 was thoroughly Franciscan. It was the
expression of the passionate, fervent soul of Francis. It was the cry of
the human heart for God and purity. The Rule of 1223 shows that the
church had begun to direct the movement. Sabatier says of these two
rules: "At the bottom of it all is the antinome of law and love. Under
the reign of law we are the mercenaries of God, bound down to an irksome
task, but paid a hundred-fold, and with an indisputable right to our
wages." Such was the conception underlying the Rule of 1223. That of
1210 is thus described: "Under the rule of love we are the sons of God,
and co-workers with Him; we give ourselves to Him without bargaining and
without expectation; we follow Jesus, not because this is well, but
because we cannot do otherwise, because we feel that He has loved us and
we love Him in our turn."

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