CHAPTER V

FIRST YEAR OF APOSTOLATE

Spring of 1209-Summer of 1210

The very next morning Francis went up to Assisi and began to preach. His

words were simple, but they came so straight from the heart that all who

heard him were touched.

It is not easy to hear and apply to one's self the exhortations of

preachers who, aloft in the pulpit, seem to be carrying out a mere

formality; it is just as difficult to escape from the appeals of a

layman who walks at our side. The amazing multitude of Protestant sects

is due in a great degree to this superiority of lay preaching over

clerical. The most brilliant orators of the Christian pulpit are bad

converters; their eloquent appeals may captivate the imagination and

lead a few men of the world to the foot of the altar, but these results

are not more brilliant than ephemeral. But let a peasant or a workingman

speak to those whom he meets a few simple words going directly to the

conscience, and the man is always impressed, often won.

Thus the words of Francis seemed to his hearers like a flaming sword

penetrating to the very depths of their conscience. His first attempts

were the simplest possible; in general they were merely a few words

addressed to men whom he knew well enough to recognize their weak points

and strike at them with the holy boldness of love. His person, his

example, were themselves a sermon, and he spoke only of that which he

had himself experienced, proclaiming repentance, the shortness of life,

a future retribution, the necessity of arriving at gospel

perfection.[1] It is not easy to realize how many waiting souls there

are in this world. The greater number of men pass through life with

souls asleep. They are like virgins of the sanctuary who sometimes feel

a vague agitation; their hearts throb with an infinitely sweet and

subtile thrill, but their eyelids droop; again they feel the damp cold

of the cloister creeping over them; the delicious but baneful dream

vanishes; and this is all they ever know of that love which is stronger

than death.

It is thus with many men for all that belongs to the higher life.

Sometimes, alone in the wide plain at the hour of twilight, they fix

their eyes on the fading lights of the horizon, and on the evening

breeze comes to them another breath, more distant, fainter, and almost

heavenly, awaking in them a nostalgia for the world beyond and for

holiness. But the darkness falls, they must go back to their homes; they

shake off their reverie; and it often happens that to the very end of

life this is their only glimpse of the Divine; a few sighs, a few

thrills, a few inarticulate murmurs--this sums up all our efforts to

attain to the sovereign good.

Yet the instinct for love and for the divine is only slumbering. At the

sight of beauty love always awakes; at the appeal of holiness the divine

witness within us at once responds; and so we see, streaming from all

points of the horizon to gather around those who preach in the name of

the inward voice, long processions of souls athirst for the ideal. The

human heart so naturally yearns to offer itself up, that we have only to

meet along our pathway some one who, doubting neither himself nor us,

demands it without reserve, and we yield it to him at once. Reason may

understand a partial gift, a transient devotion; the heart knows only

the entire sacrifice, and like the lover to his beloved, it says to its

vanquisher, "Thine alone and forever."

That which has caused the miserable failure of all the efforts of

natural religion is that its founders have not had the courage to lay

hold upon the hearts of men, consenting to no partition. They have not

understood the imperious desire for immolation which lies in the depths

of every soul, and souls have taken their revenge in not heeding these

too lukewarm lovers.

Francis had given himself up too completely not to claim from others an

absolute self-renunciation. In the two years and more since he had

quitted the world, the reality and depth of his conversion had shone out

in the sight of all; to the scoffings of the early days had gradually

succeeded in the minds of many a feeling closely akin to admiration.

This feeling inevitably provokes imitation. A man of Assisi, hardly

mentioned by the biographers, had attached himself to Francis. He was

one of those simple-hearted men who find life beautiful enough so long

as they can be with him who has kindled the divine spark[2] in their

hearts. His arrival at Portiuncula gave Francis a suggestion; from that

time he dreamed of the possibility of bringing together a few companions

with whom he could carry on his apostolic mission in the neighborhood.

At Assisi he had often enjoyed the hospitality of a rich and prominent

man named Bernardo di Quintavalle,[3] who took him to sleep in his own

chamber; it is easy to see how such an intimacy would favor confidential

outpourings. When in the silence of the early night an ardent and

enthusiastic soul pours out to you its disappointments, wounds, dreams,

hopes, faith, it is difficult indeed not to be carried along, especially

when the apostle has a secret ally in your soul, and unconsciously meets

your most secret aspirations.

One day Bernardo begged Francis to pass the following night with him, at

the same time giving him to understand that he was about to make a grave

resolution upon which he desired to consult him. The joy of Francis was

great indeed as he divined his intentions. They passed the night without

thinking of sleep; it was a long communion of souls. Bernardo had

decided to distribute his goods to the poor and cast in his lot with

Francis. The latter desired his friend to pass through a sort of

initiation, pointing out to him that what he himself practised, what he

preached, was not his own invention, but that Jesus himself had

expressly ordained it in his word.

At early dawn they bent their steps to the St. Nicholas Church,

accompanied by another neophyte named Pietro, and there, after praying

and hearing mass, Francis opened the Gospels that lay on the altar and

read to his companions the portion which had decided his own vocation:

the words of Jesus sending forth his disciples on their mission.

"Brethren," he added, "this is our life and our Rule, and that of all

who may join us. Go then and do as you have heard."[4]

The persistence with which the Three Companions relate that Francis

consulted the book three times in honor of the Trinity, and that it

opened of its own accord at the verses describing the apostolic life,

leads to the belief that these passages became the Rule of the new

association, if not that very day at least very soon afterward.

If thou wilt be perfect, go, sell that thou hast, and give to

the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come and

follow me.

Jesus having called to him the Twelve, gave them power and

authority over all devils and to cure diseases. And he sent them

to preach the kingdom of God and to heal the sick. And he said

unto them, Take nothing for your journey, neither staves, nor

scrip, neither bread, neither money; neither have two coats

apiece. And whatsoever house ye enter into, there abide, and

thence depart. And whosoever will not receive you, when ye go

out of that city shake off the very dust from your feet for a

testimony against them. And they departed and went through the

towns, preaching the gospel and healing everywhere.

Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come after

me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.

For whosoever will save his life shall lose it, and whosoever

will lose his life for my sake shall find it. For what is a man

profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own

soul?[5]

At first these verses were hardly more than the official Rule of the

Order; the true Rule was Francis himself; but they had the great merit

of being short, absolute, of promising perfection, and of being taken

from the Gospel.

Bernardo immediately set to work to distribute his fortune among the

poor. Full of joy, his friend was looking on at this act, which had

drawn together a crowd, when a priest named Sylvester, who had formerly

sold him some stones for the repairs of St. Damian, seeing so much money

given away to everyone who applied for it, drew near and said:

"Brother, you did not pay me very well for the stones which you bought

of me."

Francis had too thoroughly killed every germ of avarice in himself not

to be moved to indignation by hearing a priest speak thus. "Here," he

said, holding out to him a double handful of coins which he took from

Bernardo's robe, "here; are you sufficiently paid now?"

"Quite so," replied Sylvester, somewhat abashed by the murmurs of the

bystanders.[6]

This picture, in which the characters stand out so strongly, must have

taken strong hold upon the memory of the bystanders: the Italians only

thoroughly understand things which they make a picture of. It taught

them, better than all Francis's preachings, what manner of men these new

friars would be.

The distribution finished, they went at once to Portiuncula, where

Bernardo and Pietro built for themselves cabins of boughs, and made

themselves tunics like that of Francis. They did not differ much from

the garment worn by the peasants, and were of that brown, with its

infinite variety of shades, which the Italians call beast color. One

finds similar garments to-day among the shepherds of the most remote

parts of the Apennines.

A week later, Thursday, April 23, 1209,[7] a new disciple of the name

of Egidio presented himself before Francis. Of a gentle and submissive

nature, he was of those who need to lean on someone, but who, the needed

support having been found and tested, lift themselves sometimes even

above it. The pure soul of brother Egidio, supported by that of Francis,

came to enjoy the intoxicating delights of contemplation with an

unheard-of ardor.[8]

Here we must be on our guard against forcing the authorities, and asking

of them more than they can give. Later, when the Order was definitely

constituted and its convents organized, men fancied that the past had

been like the present, and this error still weighs upon the picture of

the origins of the Franciscan movement. The first brothers lived as did

the poor people among whom they so willingly moved; Portiuncula was

their favorite church, but it would be a mistake to suppose that they

sojourned there for any long periods. It was their place of meeting,

nothing more. When they set forth they simply knew that they should meet

again in the neighborhood of the modest chapel. Their life was that of

the Umbrian beggars of the present day, going here and there as fancy

dictated, sleeping in hay-lofts, in leper hospitals, or under the porch

of some church. So little had they any fixed domicile that Egidio,

having decided to join them, was at considerable trouble to learn where

to find Francis, and accidentally meeting him in the neighborhood of

Rivo-Torto[9] he saw in the fact a providential leading.

They went up and down the country, joyfully sowing their seed. It was

the beginning of summer, the time when everybody in Umbria is out of

doors mowing or turning the grass. The customs of the country have

changed but little. Walking in the end of May in the fields about

Florence, Perugia, or Rieti, one still sees, at nightfall, the bagpipers

entering the fields as the mowers seat themselves upon the hay-cocks for

their evening meal; they play a few pieces, and when the train of

haymakers returns to the village, followed by the harvest-laden carts,

it is they who lead the procession, rending the air with their sharpest

strains.

The joyous Penitents who loved to call themselves _Joculatores Domini_,

God's _jongleurs_, no doubt often did the same.[10] They did even

better, for not willing to be a charge to anyone, they passed a part of

the day in aiding the peasants in their field work.[11] The inhabitants

of these districts are for the most part kindly and sedate; the friars

soon gained their confidence by relating to them first their history and

then their hopes. They worked and ate together; field-hands and friars

often slept in the same barn, and when with the morrow's dawn the friars

went on their way, the hearts of those they left behind had been

touched. They were not yet converted, but they knew that not far away,

over toward Assisi, were living men who had renounced all worldly goods,

and who, consumed with zeal, were going up and down preaching penitence

and peace.

Their reception was very different in the cities. If the peasant of

Central Italy is mild and kindly the townsfolk are on a first

acquaintance scoffing and ill disposed. We shall shortly see the friars

who went to Florence the butt of all sorts of persecutions.

Only a few weeks had passed since Francis began to preach, and already

his words and acts were sounding an irresistible appeal in the depths of

many a heart. We have arrived at the most unique and interesting period

in the history of the Franciscans. These first months are for their

institution what the first days of spring are for nature, days when the

almond-tree blossoms, bearing witness to the mysterious labor going on

in the womb of the earth, and heralding the flowers that will suddenly

enamel the fields. At the sight of these men--bare footed, scantily

clothed, without money, and yet so happy--men's minds were much divided.

Some held them to be mad, others admired them, finding them widely

different from the vagrant monks,[12] that plague of Christendom.

Sometimes, however, the friars found success not responding to their

efforts, the conversion of souls not taking form with enough rapidity

and vigor. To encourage them, Francis would then confide to them his

visions and his hopes. "I saw a multitude of men coming toward us,

asking that they might receive the habit of our holy religion, and lo,

the sound of their footsteps still echoes in my ears. I saw them coming

from every direction, filling all the roads."

Whatever the biographies may say, Francis was far from foreseeing the

sorrows that were to follow this rapid increase of his Order. The maiden

leaning with trembling rapture on her lover's arm no more dreams of the

pangs of motherhood than he thought of the dregs he must drain after

quaffing joyfully the generous wine of the chalice.[13]

Every prosperous movement provokes opposition by the very fact of its

prosperity. The herbs of the field have their own language for cursing

the longer-lived plants that smother them out; one can hardly live

without arousing jealousy; in vain the new fraternity showed itself

humble, it could not escape this law.

When the brethren went up to Assisi to beg from door to door, many

refused to give to them, reproaching them with desiring to live on the

goods of others after having squandered their own. Many a time they had

barely enough not to starve to death. It would even seem that the clergy

were not entirely without part in this opposition. The Bishop of Assisi

said to Francis one day: "Your way of living without owning anything

seems to me very harsh and difficult." "My lord," replied he, "if we

possessed property we should have need of arms for its defence, for it

is the source of quarrels and lawsuits, and the love of God and of one's

neighbor usually finds many obstacles therein; this is why we do not

desire temporal goods."[14]

The argument was unanswerable, but Guido began to rue the encouragement

which he had formerly offered the son of Bernardone. He was very nearly

in the situation and consequently in the state of mind of the Anglican

bishops when they saw the organizing of the Salvation Army. It was not

exactly hostility, but a distrust which was all the deeper for hardly

daring to show itself. The only counsel which the bishop could give

Francis was to come into the ranks of the clergy, or, if asceticism

attracted him, to join some already existing monastic order.[15]

If the bishop's perplexities were great, those of Francis were hardly

less so. He was too acute not to foresee the conflict that threatened to

break out between the friars and the clergy. He saw that the enemies of

the priests praised him and his companions beyond measure simply to set

off their poverty against the avarice and wealth of the ecclesiastics,

yet he felt himself urged on from within to continue his work, and could

well have exclaimed with the apostle, _"Woe is me if I preach not the

gospel!"_ On the other hand, the families of the Penitents could not

forgive them for having distributed their goods among the poor, and

attacks came from this direction with all the bitter language and the

deep hatred natural to disappointed heirs. From this point of view the

brotherhood appeared as a menace to families, and many parents trembled

lest their sons should join it. Whether the friars would or no, they

were an unending subject of interest to the whole city. Evil rumors,

plentifully spread abroad against them, simply defeated themselves;

flying from mouth to mouth they speedily found contradictors who had no

difficulty in showing their absurdity. All this indirectly served their

cause and gained to their side those hearts, more numerous than is

generally believed, who find the defence of the persecuted a necessity.

As to the clergy, they could not but feel a profound distrust of these

lay converters, who, though they aroused the hatred of some interested

persons, awakened in more pious souls first astonishment and then

admiration. Suddenly to see men without title or diploma succeed

brilliantly in the mission which has been officially confided to

ourselves, and in which we have made pitiful shipwreck, is cruel

torture. Have we not seen generals who preferred to lose a battle rather

than gain it with the aid of guerrillas?

This covert opposition has left no characteristic traces in the

biographies of St. Francis. It is not to be wondered at; Thomas of

Celano, even if he had had information of this matter, would have been

wanting in tact to make use of it. The clergy, for that matter, possess

a thousand means of working upon public opinion without ceasing to show

a religious interest in those whom they detest.

But the more St. Francis shall find himself in contradiction with the

clergy of his time, the more he will believe himself the obedient son of

the Church. Confounding the gospel with the teaching of the Church, he

will for a good while border upon heresy, but without ever falling into

it. Happy simplicity, thanks to which he had never to take the attitude

of revolt!

It was five years since, a convalescent leaning upon his staff, he had

felt himself taken possession of by a loathing of material pleasures.

From that time every one of his days had been marked by a step in

advance.

It was again the spring-time. Perfectly happy, he felt himself more and

more impelled to bring others to share his happiness and to proclaim in

the four corners of the world how he had attained it. He resolved,

therefore, to undertake a new mission. A few days were spent in

preparing for it. The Three Companions have preserved for us the

directions which he gave to his disciples:

"Let us consider that God in his goodness has not called us

merely for our own salvation, but also for that of many men,

that we may go through all the world exhorting men, more by our

example than by our words, to repent of their sins and bear the

commandments in mind. Be not fearful on the ground that we

appear little and ignorant, but simply and without disquietude

preach repentance. Have faith in God, who has overcome the

world, that his Spirit will speak in you and by you, exhorting

men to be converted and keep his commandments.

"You will find men full of faith, gentleness, and goodness, who

will receive you and your words with joy; but you will find

others, and in greater numbers, faithless, proud, blasphemers,

who will speak evil of you, resisting you and your words. Be

resolute, then, to endure everything with patience and

humility."

Hearing this, the brethren began to be agitated. St. Francis

said to them: "Have no fear, for very soon many nobles and

learned men will come to you; they will be with you preaching to

kings and princes and to a multitude of peoples. Many will be

converted to the Lord, all over the world, who will multiply and

increase his family."

After he had thus spoken he blessed them, saying to each one the word

which was in the future to be his supreme consolation:

"My brother, commit yourself to God with all your cares, and he

will care for you."

Then the men of God departed, faithfully observing his

instructions, and when they found a church or a cross they bowed

in adoration, saying with devotion, "We adore thee, O Christ,

and we bless thee here and in all churches in the whole world,

for by thy holy cross thou hast ransomed the world." In fact

they believed that they had found a holy place wherever they

found a church or a cross.

Some listened willingly, others scoffed, the greater number

overwhelmed them with questions. "Whence come you?" "Of what

order are you?" And they, though sometimes it was wearisome to

answer, said simply, "We are penitents, natives of the city of

Assisi."[16]

This freshness and poetry will not be found in the later missions. Here

the river is still itself, and if it knows toward what sea it is

hastening, it knows nothing of the streams, more or less turbid, which

shall disturb its limpidity, nor the dykes and the straightenings to

which it will have to submit.

A long account by the Three Companions gives us a picture from life of

these first essays at preaching:

Many men took the friars for knaves or madmen and refused to

receive them into their houses for fear of being robbed. So in

many places, after having undergone all sorts of bad usage, they

could find no other refuge for the night than the porticos of

churches or houses. There were at that time two brethren who

went to Florence. They begged all through the city but could

find no shelter. Coming to a house which had a portico and under

the portico a bench, they said to one another, "We shall be very

comfortable here for the night." As the mistress of the house

refused to let them enter, they humbly asked her permission to

sleep upon the bench.

She was about to grant them permission when her husband

appeared. "Why have you permitted these lewd fellows to stay

under our portico?" he asked. The woman replied that she had

refused to receive them into the house, but had given them

permission to sleep under the portico where there was nothing

for them to steal but the bench.

The cold was very sharp; but taking them for thieves no one gave

them any covering.

As for them, after having enjoyed on their bench no more sleep

than was necessary, warmed only by divine warmth, and having for

covering only their Lady Poverty, in the early dawn they went to

the church to hear mass.

The lady went also on her part, and seeing the friars devoutly

praying she said to herself: "If these men were rascals and

thieves as my husband said, they would not remain thus in

prayer." And while she was making these reflections behold a man

of the name of Guido was giving alms to the poor in the church.

Coming to the friars he would have given a piece of money to

them as to the others, but they refused his money and would not

receive it. "Why," he asked, "since you are poor, will you not

accept like the others?" "It is true that we are poor," replied

Brother Bernardo, "but poverty does not weigh upon us as upon

other poor people; for by the grace of God, whose will we are

accomplishing, we have voluntarily become poor."

Much amazed, he asked them if they had ever had anything, and

learned that they had possessed much, but that for the love of

God they had given everything away.... The lady, seeing that the

friars had refused the alms, drew near to them and said that

she would gladly receive them into her house if they would be

pleased to lodge there. "May the Lord recompense to you your

good will," replied the friars, humbly.

But Guido, learning that they had not been able to find a

shelter, took them to his own house, saying, "Here is a refuge

prepared for you by the Lord; remain in it as long as you

desire."

As for them, they gave thanks to God and spent several days with

him, preaching the fear of the Lord by word and example, so that

in the end he made large distributions to the poor.

Well treated by him, they were despised by others. Many men,

great and small, attacked and insulted them, sometimes going so

far as to tear off their clothing; but though despoiled of their

only tunic, they would not ask for its restitution. If, moved to

pity, men gave back to them what they had taken away, they

accepted it cheerfully.

There were those who threw mud upon them, others who put dice

into their hands and invited them to play, and others clutching

them by the cowl made them drag them along thus. But seeing that

the friars were always full of joy in the midst of their

tribulations, that they neither received nor carried money, and

that by their love for one another they made themselves known as

true disciples of the Lord, many of them felt themselves

reproved in their hearts and came asking pardon for the offences

which they had committed. They, pardoning them with all their

heart, said, "The Lord forgive you," and gave them pious

counsels for the salvation of their souls.

A translation can but imperfectly give all the repressed emotion, the

candid simplicity, the modest joy, the fervent love which breathe in the

faulty Latin of the Three Companions. Yet these scattered friars sighed

after the home-coming and the long conversations with their spiritual

father in the tranquil forests of the suburbs of Assisi. Friendship

among men, when it overpasses a certain limit, has something deep, high,

ideal, infinitely sweet, to which no other friendship attains. There was

no woman in the Upper Chamber when, on the last evening of his life,

Jesus communed with his disciples and invited the world to the eternal

marriage supper.

Francis, above all, was impatient to see his young family once more.

They all arrived at Portiuncula almost at the same time, having already,

before reaching it, forgotten the torments they had endured, thinking

only of the joy of the meeting.[17]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] 1 Cel., 23; 3 Soc., 25 and 26; Bon., 27. Cf. _Auct. Vit.

Sec. ap._, A. SS., p. 579.

[2] 1 Cel., 24. We must correct the Bollandist text: _Inter quos

quidam de Assisio puer ac simplicem animum gerens_, by: _quidam

de Assisio pium ac simplicem_, etc. The period at which we have

arrived is very clear as a whole: the picture which the Three

Companions give us is true with a truth which forces conviction

at first sight; but neither they nor Celano are giving an

official report. Later on men desired to know precisely in what

order the early disciples came, and they tortured the texts to

find an answer. The same course was followed with regard to the

first missionary journeys. But on both sides they came up

against impossibilities and contradictions. What does it matter

whether there were two, three, or four missions before the papal

approbation? Of what consequence are the names of those early

disciples who are entirely secondary in the history of the

Franciscan movement? All these things took place with much more

simplicity and spontaneity than is generally supposed. There is

a wide difference between the plan of a house drawn up by an

architect and a view of the same house painted by an artist. The

second, though abounding in inexactitudes, gives a more just

notion of the reality than the plan. The same is true of the

Franciscan biographies.

[3] 1 Cel., 24. Bernard de Besse is the first to call him B. di

Quintavalle: _De laudibus_, fo. 95 h.; cf. upon him Mark of

Lisbon, t. i., second part, pp. 68-70; _Conform._, 47; _Fior._,

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 28; 3 Soc., 27, 30, 39; 2 Cel., 1, 10; 2, 19;

Bon., 28; 1 Cel., 30; Salimbeni, ann. 1229, and _Tribul. Arch._,

ii., p. 278, etc.

[4] 1 Cel., 24; 3 Soc., 27, 28, 29; 2 Cel., 1, 10; 3, 52; Bon.,

28; A. SS., p. 580. It is evident that the tradition has been

worked over here: it soon came to be desired to find a miracle

in the manner in which Francis found the passage for reading.

The St. Nicholas Church is no longer in existence; it stood upon

the piece of ground now occupied by the barracks of the

_gendarmerie_ (_carabinieri reali_).

[5] Matt., xix., 21; Luke, ix., 1-6; Matt., xvi., 24-26. The

agreement of tradition upon these passages is complete. 3 Soc.,

29; 2 Cel., 1, 10; Bon., 28; _Spec._, 5b.; _Conform._, 37b. 2,

47a. 2; _Fior._, 2; Glassberger and the Chronicle of the xxiv.

generals reversing the order (Analecta, fr., t. ii., p. 5) as

well as the Conformities in another place, 87b, 2.

[6] 3 Soc., 30. Cf. _Anon. Perus._, A. SS., p. 581a. This scene

is reported neither by Celano nor by St. Bonaventura.

[7] This date is given in the life of Brother Egidio; A. SS.,

_Oct._, t. ii., p. 572; _Aprilis_, t. iii., p. 220. It fits well

with the accounts. Through it we obtain the approximate date of

the definitive conversion of Francis two full years earlier.

[8] 1 Cel., 25; 3 Soc., 23; Bon. 29. Cf. _Anon. Perus._, A. SS.,

p. 582, and A. SS., _Aprilis_, t. iii., p. 220 ff.

[9] _Spec._, 25a: _Qualiter dixit fratri Egidio priusquam esset

receptus ut daret mantellum ciudam pauperi. In primordio

religionis cum maneret apud Regum Tortum cum duobus fratribus

quos tunc tantum habehat._ If we compare this passage with 3

Soc., 44, we shall doubtless arrive at the conclusion that the

account in the Speculum is more satisfactory. It is in fact very

easy to understand the optical illusion by which later on the

Portiuncula was made the scene of the greater number of the

events of St. Francis's life, while it would be difficult to see

why there should have been any attempt to surround Rivo-Torto

with an aureola. The Fioretti say: _Ando inverso lo spedale dei

lebbrosi_, which confirms the indication of Rivo-Torto. _Vita d'

Egidio_, § 1.

[10] _An. Perus_, A. SS., p. 582. Cf. _Fior._, _Vita di Egidio_,

1; _Spec._, 124, 136; 2 Cel., 3, 68; A. SS., _Aprilis_, t. iii.,

p. 227.

[11] _Spec._, 34a; _Conform._, 219b, 1; _Ant. fr._, p. 96.

[12] The Gyrovagi. Tr.

[13] 3 Soc. 32-34; 1 Cel., 27 and 28; Bon., 31.

[14] 3 Soc., 35. Cf. _Anon. Perus._; A. SS., p. 584.

[15] Later on, naturally, it was desired that Francis should

have had no better supporter than Guido; some have even made him

out to be his spiritual director (St. François, Plon, p. 24)! We

have an indirect but unexceptionable proof of the reserve with

which these pious traditions must be accepted; Francis did not

even tell his bishop (_pater et dominus animarum_, 3 Soc., 29)

of his design of having his Rule approved by the pope. This is

the more striking because the bishop would have been his natural

advocate at the court of Rome, and because in the absence of any

other reason the most elementary politeness required that he

should have been informed. Add to this that bishops in Italy are

not, as elsewhere, _functionaries_ approached with difficulty by

the common run of mortals. Almost every village in Umbria has

its bishop, so that their importance is hardly greater than that

of the curé of a French canton. Furthermore, several pontifical

documents throw a sombre light on Guido's character. In a

chapter of the decretals of Honorius III. (_Quinta compil._,

lib. ii., tit. iii., cap. i.) is given a complaint against this

bishop, brought before the curia by the Crucigeri of the

hospital _San Salvatore delle Pareti_ (suburbs of Assisi), of

having maltreated two of their number, and having stolen a part

of the wine belonging to the convent: _pro eo quod Aegidium

presbyterum, et fratrem eorem conversum violentas manus

injecerat ... adjiciens quod idem hospitale quadam vini

quantitate fuerat per eumdem episcopum spoliatum._ _Honorii

opera_, Horoy's edition, t. i., col. 200 ff. Cf. Potthast, 7746.

The mention of the hospital _de Pariete_ proves beyond question

that the Bishop of Assisi is here concerned and not the Bishop

of Osimo, as some critics have suggested.

Another document shows him at strife with the Benedictines of

Mount Subasio (the very ones who afterward gave Portiuncula to

Francis), and Honorius III. found the bishop in the wrong: Bull

_Conquerente oeconomo monasterii ap_. Richter, _Corpus juris

canonici_. Leipzig, 1839, 4to, Horoy, _loc. cit._, t. i., col.

163; Potthast, 7728.

[16] 3 Soc., 36 and 37. Cf. _Anon. Perus. ap._, A. SS., p. 585;

_Test. B. Francisci_.

[17] 3 Soc., 38-41.

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