CHAPTER IV

STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH

Spring of 1206-February 24, 1209

The biographies of St. Francis have preserved to us an incident which

shows how great was the religious ferment even in the little city of

Assisi. A stranger was seen to go up and down the streets saying to

every one he met, "Peace and welfare!" (_Pax et bonum._)[1] He thus

expressed in his own way the disquietude of those hearts which could

neither resign themselves to perpetual warfare nor to the disappearance

of faith and love; artless echo, vibrating in response to the hopes and

fears that were shaking all Europe!

_"Vox clamantis in deserto!"_ it will be said. No, for every heart-cry

leaves its trace even when it seems to be uttered in empty air, and that

of the Unknown of Assisi may have contributed in some measure to

Francis's definitive call.

Since his abrupt return from Spoleto, life in his father's house had

become daily more difficult. Bernardone's self-love had received from

his son's discomfiture such a wound as with commonplace men is never

healed. He might provide, without counting it, money to be swallowed up

in dissipation, that so his son might stand on an equal footing with the

young nobles; he could never resign himself to see him giving with

lavish hands to every beggar in the streets.

Francis, continually plunged in reverie and spending his days in lonely

wanderings in the fields, was no longer of the least use to his father.

Months passed, and the distance between the two men grew ever wider; and

the gentle and loving Pica could do nothing to prevent a rupture which

from this time appeared to be inevitable. Francis soon came to feel only

one desire, to flee from the abode where, in the place of love, he found

only reproaches, upbraidings, anguish.

The faithful confidant of his earlier struggles had been obliged to

leave him, and this absolute solitude weighed heavily upon his warm and

loving heart. He did what he could to escape from it, but no one

understood him. The ideas which he was beginning timidly to express

evoked from those to whom he spoke only mocking smiles or the

head-shakings which men sure that they are right bestow upon him who is

marching straight to madness. He even went to open his mind to the

bishop, but the latter understood no more than others his vague,

incoherent plans, filled with ideas impossible to realize and possibly

subversive.[2] It was thus that in spite of himself Francis was led to

ask nothing of men, but to raise himself by prayer to intuitive

knowledge of the divine will. The doors of houses and of hearts were

alike closing upon him, but the interior voice was about to speak out

with irresistible force and make itself forever obeyed.

Among the numerous chapels in the suburbs of Assisi there was one which

he particularly loved, that of St. Damian. It was reached by a few

minutes' walk over a stony path, almost trackless, under olive trees,

amid odors of lavender and rosemary. Standing on the top of a hillock,

the entire plain is visible from it, through a curtain of cypresses and

pines which seem to be trying to hide the humble hermitage and set up

an ideal barrier between it and the world.

Served by a poor priest who had scarcely the wherewithal for necessary

food, the sanctuary was falling into ruin. There was nothing in the

interior but a simple altar of masonry, and by way of reredos one of

those byzantine crucifixes still so numerous in Italy, where through the

work of the artists of the time has come down to us something of the

terrors which agitated the twelfth century. In general the Crucified

One, frightfully lacerated, with bleeding wounds, appears to seek to

inspire only grief and compunction; that of St. Damian, on the contrary,

has an expression of inexpressible calm and gentleness; instead of

closing the eyelids in eternal surrender to the weight of suffering, it

looks down in self-forgetfulness, and its pure, clear gaze says, not "_I

suffer_," but, "_Come unto me_."[3]

One day Francis was praying before the poor altar: "Great and glorious

God, and thou, Lord Jesus, I pray ye, shed abroad your light in the

darkness of my mind.... Be found of me, Lord, so that in all things I

may act only in accordance with thy holy will."[4]

Thus he prayed in his heart, and behold, little by little it seemed to

him that his gaze could not detach itself from that of Jesus; he felt

something marvellous taking place in and around him. The sacred victim

took on life, and in the outward silence he was aware of a voice which

softly stole into the very depths of his heart, speaking to him an

ineffable language. Jesus accepted his oblation. Jesus desired his

labor, his life, all his being, and the heart of the poor solitary was

already bathed in light and strength.[5]

This vision marks the final triumph of Francis. His union with Christ is

consummated; from this time he can exclaim with the mystics of every

age, "My beloved is mine, and I am his."

But instead of giving himself up to transports of contemplation he at

once asks himself how he may repay to Jesus love for love, in what

action he shall employ this life which he has just offered to him. He

had not long to seek. We have seen that the chapel where his spiritual

espousals had just been celebrated was threatened with ruin. He believed

that to repair it was the work assigned to him.

From that day the remembrance of the Crucified One, the thought of the

love which had triumphed in immolating itself, became the very centre of

his religious life and as it were the soul of his soul. For the first

time, no doubt, Francis had been brought into direct, personal, intimate

contact with Jesus Christ; from belief he had passed to faith, to that

living faith which a distinguished thinker has so well defined: "To

believe is to look; it is a serious, attentive, and prolonged look; a

look more simple than that of observation, a look which looks, and

nothing more; artless, infantine, it has all the soul in it, it is a

look of the soul and not the mind, a look which does not seek to analyze

its object, but which receives it as a whole into the soul through the

eyes." In these words Vinet unconsciously has marvellously characterized

the religious temperament of St. Francis.

This look of love cast upon the crucifix, this mysterious colloquy with

the compassionate victim, was never more to cease. At St. Damian, St.

Francis's piety took on its outward appearance and its originality. From

this time his soul bears the stigmata, and as his biographers have said

in words untranslatable, _Ab illa hora vulneratum et liquefactum est

cor ejus ed memoriam Dominicæ passionis._[6]

From that time his way was plain before him. Coming out from the

sanctuary, he gave the priest all the money he had about him to keep a

lamp always burning, and with ravished heart he returned to Assisi. He

had decided to quit his father's house and undertake the restoration of

the chapel, after having broken the last ties that bound him to the

past. A horse and a few pieces of gayly colored stuffs were all that he

possessed. Arrived at home he made a packet of the stuffs, and mounting

his horse he set out for Foligno. This city was then as now the most

important commercial town of all the region. Its fairs attracted the

whole population of Umbria and the Sabines. Bernardone had often taken

his son there,[7] and Francis speedily succeeded in selling all he had

brought. He even parted with his horse, and full of joy set out upon the

road to Assisi.[8]

This act was to him most important; it marked his final rupture with the

past; from this day on his life was to be in all points the opposite of

what it had been; the Crucified had given himself to him; he on his side

had given himself to the Crucified without reserve or return. To

uncertainty, disquietude of soul, anguish, longing for an unknown good,

bitter regrets, had succeeded a delicious calm, the ecstasy of the lost

child who finds his mother, and forgets in a moment the torture of his

heart.

From Foligno he returned direct to St. Damian; it was not necessary to

pass through the city, and he was in haste to put his projects into

execution.

The poor priest was surprised enough when Francis handed over to him the

whole product of his sale. He doubtless thought that a passing quarrel

had occurred between Bernardone and his son, and for greater prudence

refused the gift; but Francis so insisted upon remaining with him that

he finally gave him leave to do so. As to the money, now become useless,

Francis cast it as a worthless object upon a window-seat in the

chapel.[9]

Meanwhile Bernardone, disturbed by his son's failure to return, sought

for him in all quarters, and was not long in learning of his presence at

St. Damian. In a moment he perceived that Francis was lost to him.

Resolved to try every means, he collected a few neighbors, and furious

with rage hastened to the hermitage to snatch him away, if need were, by

main force.

But Francis knew his father's violence. When he heard the shouts of

those who were in pursuit of him he felt his courage fail and hurried to

a hiding-place which he had prepared for himself for precisely such an

emergency. Bernardone, no doubt ill seconded in the search, ransacked

every corner, but was obliged at last to return to Assisi without his

son. Francis remained hidden for long days, weeping and groaning,

imploring God to show him the path he ought to follow. Notwithstanding

his fears he had an infinite joy at heart, and at no price would he have

turned back.[10]

This seclusion could not last long. Francis perceived this, and told

himself that for a newly made knight of the Christ he was cutting a very

pitiful figure. Arming himself, therefore, with courage, he went one day

to the city to present himself before his father and make known to him

his resolution.

It is easy to imagine the changes wrought in his appearance by these

few weeks of seclusion, passed much of them in mental anguish. When he

appeared, pale, cadaverous, his clothes in tatters, upon what is now the

_Piazza Nuova_, where hundreds of children play all day long, he was

greeted with a great shout, "_Pazzo, Pazzo_!" (A madman! a madman!) "_Un

pazzo ne fa cento_" (One madman makes a hundred more), says the proverb,

but one must have seen the delirious excitement of the street children

of Italy at the sight of a madman to gain an idea how true it is. The

moment the magic cry resounds they rush into the street with frightful

din, and while their parents look on from the windows, they surround the

unhappy sufferer with wild dances mingled with songs, shouts, and savage

howls. They throw stones at him, fling mud upon him, blindfold him; if

he flies into a rage, they double their insults; if he weeps or begs for

pity, they repeat his cries and mimic his sobs and supplications without

respite and without mercy.[11]

Bernardone soon heard the clamor which filled the narrow streets, and

went out to enjoy the show; suddenly he thought he heard his own name

and that of his son, and bursting with shame and rage he perceived

Francis. Throwing himself upon him, as if to throttle him, he dragged

him into the house and cast him, half dead, into a dark closet. Threats,

bad usage, everything was brought to bear to change the prisoner's

resolves, but all in vain. At last, wearied out and desperate, he left

him in peace, though not without having firmly bound him.[12]

A few days after he was obliged to be absent for a short time. Pica, his

wife, understood only too well his grievances against Francis, but

feeling that violence would be of no avail she resolved to try

gentleness. It was all in vain. Then, not being able longer to see him

thus tortured, she set him at liberty.

He returned straight to St. Damian.[13]

Bernardone, on his return, went so far as to strike Pica in punishment

for her weakness. Then, unable to tolerate the thought of seeing his son

the jest of the whole city, he tried to procure his expulsion from the

territory of Assisi. Going to St. Damian he summoned him to leave the

country. This time Francis did not try to hide. Boldly presenting

himself before his father, he declared to him that not only would

nothing induce him to abandon his resolutions, but that, moreover,

having become the servant of Christ, he had no longer to receive orders

from him.[14] As Bernardone launched out into invective, reproaching

him with the enormous sums which he had cost him, Francis showed him by

a gesture the money which he had brought back from the sale at Foligno

lying on the window-ledge. The father greedily seized it and went away,

resolving to appeal to the magistrates.

The consuls summoned Francis to appear before them, but he replied

simply that as servant of the Church he did not come under their

jurisdiction. Glad of this response, which relieved them of a delicate

dilemma, they referred the complainant to the diocesan authorities.[15]

The matter took on another aspect before the ecclesiastical tribunal; it

was idle to dream of asking the bishop to pronounce a sentence of

banishment, since it was his part to preserve the liberty of the

clerics. Bernardone could do no more than disinherit his son, or at

least induce him of his own accord to renounce all claim upon his

inheritance. This was not difficult.

When called upon to appear before the episcopal tribunal[16] Francis

experienced a lively joy; his mystical espousals to the Crucified One

were now to receive a sort of official consecration. To this Jesus, whom

he had so often blasphemed and betrayed by word and conduct, he would

now be able with equal publicity to promise obedience and fidelity.

It is easy to imagine the sensation which all this caused in a small

town like Assisi, and the crowd that on the appointed day pressed toward

the Piazza of Santa Maria Maggiore, where the bishop pronounced

sentence.[17] Every one held Francis to be assuredly mad, but they

anticipated with relish the shame and rage of Bernardone, whom every one

detested, and whose pride was so well punished by all this.

The bishop first set forth the case, and advised Francis to simply give

up all his property. To the great surprise of the crowd the latter,

instead of replying, retired to a room in the bishop's palace, and

immediately reappeared absolutely naked, holding in his hand the packet

into which he had rolled his clothes; these he laid down before the

bishop with the little money that he still had kept, saying: "Listen,

all of you, and understand it well; until this time I have called Pietro

Bernardone my father, but now I desire to serve God. This is why I

return to him this money, for which he has given himself so much

trouble, as well as my clothing, and all that I have had from him, for

from henceforth I desire to say nothing else than '_Our Father, who art

in heaven_.'"

A long murmur arose from the crowd when Bernardone was seen to gather up

and carry off the clothing without the least evidence of compassion,

while the bishop was fain to take under his mantle the poor Francis,

who was trembling with emotion and cold.[18]

The scene of the judgment hall made an immense impression; the ardor,

simplicity, and indignation of Francis had been so profound and sincere

that scoffers were disconcerted. On that day he won for himself a secret

sympathy in many souls. The populace loves such abrupt conversions, or

those which it considers such. Francis once again forced himself upon

the attention of his fellow-citizens with a power all the greater for

the contrast between his former and his new life.

There are pious folk whose modesty is shocked by the nudity of Francis;

but Italy is not Germany nor England, and the thirteenth century would

have been astonished indeed at the prudery of the Bollandists. The

incident is simply a new manifestation of Francis's character, with its

ingenuousness, its exaggerations, its longing to establish a complete

harmony, a literal correspondence, between words and actions.

After emotions such as he had just experienced he felt the need of being

alone, of realizing his joy, of singing the liberty he had finally

achieved along all the lines where once he had so deeply suffered, so

ardently struggled. He would not, therefore, return immediately to St.

Damian. Leaving the city by the nearest gate, he plunged into the

deserted paths which climb the sides of Mount Subasio.

It was the early spring. Here and there were still great drifts of snow,

but under the ardor of the March sun winter seemed to own itself

vanquished. In the midst of this mysterious and bewildering harmony the

heart of Francis felt a delicious thrill, all his being was calmed and

uplifted, the soul of things caressed him gently and shed upon him

peace. An unwonted happiness swept over him; he made the forest to

resound with his hymns of praise.

Men utter in song emotions too sweet or too deep to be expressed in

ordinary language, but unworded music is in this respect superior to

song, it is above all things the language of the ineffable. Song gains

almost the same value when the words are only there as a support for the

voice. The great beauty of the psalms and hymns of the Church lies in

the fact that being sung in an unknown tongue they make no appeal to the

intelligence; they say nothing, but they express everything with

marvellous modulations like a celestial accompaniment, which follows the

believer's emotions from the most agonizing struggles to the most

unspeakable ecstasies.

So Francis went on his way, deeply inhaling the odors of spring, singing

at the top of his voice one of those songs of French chivalry which he

had learned in days gone by.

The forest in which he was walking was the usual retreat of such people

of Assisi and its environs as had any reason for hiding. Some ruffians,

aroused by his voice, suddenly fell upon him. "Who are you?" they asked.

"I am the herald of the great King," he answered "but what is that to

you?"

His only garment was an old mantle which the bishop's gardener had lent

him at his master's request. They stripped it from him, and throwing him

into a ditch full of snow, "There is your place, poor herald of God,"

they said.

The robbers gone, he shook off the snow which covered him, and after may

efforts succeeded in extricating himself from the ditch. Stiff with

cold, with no other covering than a worn-out shirt, he none the less

resumed his singing, happy to suffer and thus to accustom himself the

better to understand the words of the Crucified One.[19]

Not far away was a monastery. He entered and offered his services. In

those solitudes, peopled often by such undesirable neighbors, people

were suspicious. The monks permitted him to make himself useful in the

kitchen, but they gave him nothing to cover himself with and hardly

anything to eat. There was nothing for it but to go away; he directed

his steps toward Gubbio, where he knew that he should find a friend.

Perhaps this was he who had been his confidant on his return from

Spoleto. However this may be, he received from him a tunic, and a few

days after set out to return to his dear St. Damian.[20]

He did not, however, go directly thither; before beginning to restore

the little sanctuary, he desired to see again his friends, the lepers,

to promise them that he would love them even better than in the past.

Since his first visit to the leper-house the brilliant cavalier had

become a poor beggar; he came with empty hands but with heart

overflowing with tenderness and compassion. Taking up his abode in the

midst of these afflicted ones he lavished upon them the most touching

care, washing and wiping their sores, all the more gentle and radiant as

their sores were more repulsive.[21] The neglected sufferer is as much

blinded by love of him who comes to visit him as the child by its love

for its mother. He believes him to be all powerful; at his approach the

most painful sufferings are eased or disappear.

This love inspired by the sympathy of an affectionate heart may become

so deep as to appear at times supernatural; the dying have been known to

recover consciousness in order to look for the last time into the face,

not of some member of the family, but of the friend who has tried to be

the sunshine of their last days. The ties of pure love are stronger than

the bonds of flesh and blood. Francis had many a time sweet experience

of this; from the time of his arrival at the leper-house he felt that if

he had lost his life he was about to find it again.

Encouraged by his sojourn among the lepers, he returned to St. Damian

and went to work, filled with joy and ardor, his heart as much in the

sunshine as the Umbrian plain in this beautiful month of May. After

having fashioned for himself a hermit's dress, he began to go into the

squares and open places of the city. There having sung a few hymns, he

would announce to those who gathered around him his project of restoring

the chapel. "Those who will give me one stone," he would add with a

smile, "shall have a reward; those who give me two shall have two

rewards, and those who give me three shall have three."

Many deemed him mad, but others were deeply moved by the remembrance of

the past. As for Francis, deaf to mockery, he spared himself no labor,

carrying upon his shoulders, so ill-fitted for severe toil, the stones

which were given him.[22]

During this time the poor priest of St. Damian felt his heart swelling

with love for this companion who had at first caused him such

embarrassment, and he strove to prepare for him his favorite dishes.

Francis soon perceived it. His delicacy took alarm at the expense which

he caused his friend, and, thanking him, he resolved to beg his food

from door to door.

It was not an easy task. The first time, when at the end of his round he

glanced at the broken food in his wallet, he felt his courage fail him.

But the thought of being so soon unfaithful to the spouse to whom he had

plighted his faith made his blood run cold with shame and gave him

strength to eat ravenously.[23]

Each hour, so to speak, brought to him a new struggle. One day he was

going through the town begging for oil for the lamps of St. Damian, when

he arrived at a house where a banquet was going on; the greater number

of his former companions were there, singing and dancing. At the sound

of those well-known voices he felt as if he could not enter; he even

turned away, but very soon, filled with confusion by his own cowardice,

he returned quickly upon his steps, made his way into the banquet-hall,

and after confessing his shame, put so much earnestness and fire into

his request that every one desired to co-operate in this pious

work.[24]

His bitterest trial however was his father's anger, which remained as

violent as ever. Although he had renounced Francis, Bernardone's pride

suffered none the less at seeing his mode of life, and whenever he met

his son he overwhelmed him with reproaches and maledictions. The tender

heart of Francis was so wrung with sorrow that he resorted to a sort of

stratagem for charming away the spell of the paternal imprecations.

"Come with me," he said to a beggar; "be to me as a father, and I will

give you a part of the alms which I receive. When you see Bernardone

curse me, if I say, 'Bless me, my father,' you must sign me with the

cross and bless me in his stead."[25] His brother was prominent in the

front rank of those who harassed him with their mockeries. One winter

morning they met in a church; Angelo leaned over to a friend who was

with him, saying: "Go, ask Francis to sell you a farthing's worth of his

sweat." "No," replied the latter, who overheard. "I shall sell it much

dearer to my God."

In the spring of 1208 he finished the restoration of St. Damian; he had

been aided by all people of good will, setting the example of work and

above all of joy, cheering everybody by his songs and his projects for

the future. He spoke with such enthusiasm and contagious warmth of the

transformation of his dear chapel, of the grace which God would accord

to those who should come there to pray, that later on it was believed

that he had spoken of Clara and her holy maidens who were to retire to

this place four years later.[26]

This success soon inspired him with the idea of repairing the other

sanctuaries in the suburbs of Assisi. Those which had struck him by

their state of decay were St. Peter and Santa Maria, of the

_Portiuncula_, called also Santa Maria degli Angeli. The former is not

otherwise mentioned in his biographies.[27] As to the second, it was to

become the true cradle of the Franciscan movement.

This chapel, still standing at the present day after escaping

revolutions and earthquakes, is a true Bethel, one of those rare spots

in the world on which rests the mystic ladder which joins heaven to

earth; there were dreamed some of the noblest dreams which have soothed

the pains of humanity. It is not to Assisi in its marvellous basilica

that one must go to divine and comprehend St. Francis; he must turn his

steps to Santa Maria degli Angeli at the hours when the stated prayers

cease, at the moment when the evening shadows lengthen, when all the

fripperies of worship disappear in the obscurity, when all the nation

seems to collect itself to listen to the chime of the distant church

bells. Doubtless it was Francis's plan to settle there as a hermit. He

dreamed of passing his life there in meditation and silence, keeping up

the little church and from time to time inviting a priest there to say

mass. Nothing as yet suggested to him that he was in the end to become a

religious founder. One of the most interesting aspects of his life is in

fact the continual development revealing itself in him; he is of the

small number to whom to live is to be active, and to be active to make

progress. There is hardly anyone, except St. Paul, in whom is found to

the same degree the devouring need of being always something more,

always something better, and it is so beautiful in both of them only

because it is absolutely instinctive.

When he began to restore the Portiuncula his projects hardly went beyond

a very narrow horizon; he was preparing himself for a life of penitence

rather than a life of activity. But these works once finished it was

impossible that this somewhat selfish and passive manner of achieving

his own salvation should satisfy him long. At the memory of the

appearance of the Crucified One his heart would swell with overpowering

emotions, and he would melt into tears without knowing whether they were

of admiration, pity, or desire.[28]

When the repairs were finished meditation occupied the greater part of

his days. A Benedictine of the Abbey of Mont Subasio[29] came from time

to time to say mass at Santa Maria; these were the bright hours of St.

Francis's life. One can imagine with what pious care he prepared himself

and with what faith he listened to the divine teachings.

One day, it was probably February 24, 1209, the festival of St.

Matthias, mass was being celebrated at the Portiuncula.[30] When the

priest turned toward him to read the words of Jesus, Francis felt

himself overpowered with a profound agitation. He no longer saw the

priest; it was Jesus, the Crucified One of St. Damian, who was speaking:

"Wherever ye go, preach, saying, 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal

the sick, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils. Freely ye have received,

freely give. Provide neither silver nor gold nor brass in your purses,

neither scrip nor two coats, nor shoes nor staff, for the laborer is

worthy of his meat.'"

These words burst upon him like a revelation, like the answer of Heaven

to his sighs and anxieties.

"This is what I want," he cried, "this is what I was seeking; from this

day forth I shall set myself with all my strength to put it in

practice." Immediately throwing aside his stick, his scrip, his purse,

his shoes, he determined immediately to obey, observing to the letter

the precepts of the apostolic life.

It is quite possible that some allegorizing tendencies have had some

influence upon this narrative.[31] The long struggle through which

Francis passed before becoming the apostle of the new times assuredly

came to a crisis in the scene at Portiuncula; but we have already seen

how slow was the interior travail which prepared for it.

The revelation of Francis was in his heart; the sacred fire which he was

to communicate to the souls of others came from within his own, but the

best causes need a standard. Before the shabby altar of the Portiuncula

he had perceived the banner of poverty, sacrifice, and love, he would

carry it to the assault of every fortress of sin; under its shadow, a

true knight of Christ, he would marshal all the valiant warriors of a

spiritual strife.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] 3 Soc., 26.

[2] 3 Soc., 10.

[3] This crucifix is preserved in the sacristy of Santa Chiara,

whither the sisters carried it when they left St. Damian.

[4] _Opuscula B. Francisci, Oratio I._

[5] 3 Soc., 13; 2 Cel., 1, 6; Bon., 12; 15; 16.

[6] 3 Soc., 14.

[7] This incident is found in the narrative of 1 Cel., 8: _Ibi

ex more venditis_.

[8] 1 Cel., 8; 3 Soc., 16; Bon. 16. Foligno is a three hours'

walk from Assisi.

[9] 1 Cel., 9; 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 6. Cf. A. SS., p. 567.

[10] 1 Cel., 10; 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 17, A. SS.; p. 568.

[11] 1 Cel., 11.

[12] 1 Cel., 12; 3 Soc., 17; Bon., 18.

[13] 1 Cel., 13; 3 Soc., 18.

[14] 1 Cel., 13. It is possible that at this epoch he had

received the lesser order, and that thus he might be subject to

the jurisdiction of the Church.

[15] 3 Soc., 18 and 19; 1 Cel., 14; Bon., 19.

[16] From 1204 until after the death of St. Francis the

episcopal throne of Assisi was occupied by Guido II. Vide

Cristofano, 1, 169 ff.

[17] _Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore o del vescovado._

Everything has remained pretty nearly in the same state as in

the thirteenth century.

[18] 1 Cel., 15; 3 Soc., 20; Bon., 20.

[19] 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 21.

[20] 1 Cel., 16; Bon., 21. The curious will read with interest

an article by M. Mezzatinti upon the journey to Gubbio entitled

_S. Francesco e Frederico Spadalunga da Gubbio_. [Miscellanea,

t. v., pp. 76-78.] This Spadalunga da Gubbio was well able to

give a garment to Francis, but it is very possible that the gift

was made much later and that this solemn date in the saint's

life has been fixed by an optical illusion, almost inevitable

because of the identity of the fact with the name of the

locality.

[21] 1 Cel., 17; Bon., 11; 13; 21; 22; 3 Soc., 11; A. SS., p.

575.

[22] 1 Cel., 18; 3 Soc., 21; Bon., 23.

[23] 3 Soc., 22; 2 Cel., 1, 9.

[24] 3 Soc., 24; 2 Cel., 8; _Spec._, 24.

[25] 3 Soc., 23; 2 Cel., 7.

[26] 3 Soc., 24; _Testament de Claire_, Wadding, _ann. 1253_ v.

[27] Cel., 21; Bon., 24.

[28] 3 Soc., 14; 2 Cel., i., 6.

[29] Portiuncula was a dependence of this abbey.

[30] This is the date adopted by the Bollandists, because the

ancient missals mark the pericope, Matt. x., for the gospel of

this day. This entails no difficulty and in any case it cannot

be very far distant from the truth. A. SS., p. 574.

[31] See in particular Bon., 25 and 26. Cf. A. SS., p. 577d.

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