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Title: The Life of St. Frances of Rome, and Others

Author: Georgiana Fullerton

Contributor: J. M. Capes

Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8495]
                Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF ST. FRANCES OF ROME, AND OTHERS ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team




THE LIFE

OF

ST. FRANCES OF ROME,

BY

LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON;


OF

BLESSED LUCY OF NARNI,


OF

DOMINICA OF PARADISO


AND OF

ANNE DE MONTMORENCY:


WITH

An Introductory Essay

ON THE MIRACULOUS LIFE OF THE SAINTS,

BY J. M. CAPES, ESQ. _N.B. The proprietorship of this Series is secured
in all countries where the Copyright is protected._ The authorities on
which the History of St. Frances of Rome rests are as follows:

Her life by Mattiotti, her Confessor for ten years. Mattiotti enjoined
her, as a matter of obedience, to relate to him from time to time her
visions in the minutest detail. He was a timid and suspicious man,
and for two or three years kept a daily record of all she told him;
afterwards, as his confidence in her sanctity and sanity grew complete,
he contented himself with a more general account of her ecstasies, and
also put together a private history of her life. After her death, he
wrote a regular biography, which is now to be found in the Bollandist
collection (Venice, 1735, vol. ii.).

Early in the seventeenth century, Ursinus, a Jesuit, wrote a life, which
was highly esteemed, but which was never printed, and, except in certain
fragments, is now lost.

In 1641, Fuligato, a Jesuit, wrote the second life, in the Bollandist
collection, which contains particulars of events that happened after
Mattiotti's time.

Other well-written lives have since appeared: especially a recent one by
the Vicomte de Bussière, in which will be found various details too
long to be included in the sketch here presented to the English reader.
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.

THE MIRACULOUS LIFE OF THE SAINTS.

In presenting to the general reader a newly-written Life of so
extraordinary a person as St. Frances of Rome, together with the
biographical sketches contained in the present volume, it may be useful
to introduce them with a few brief remarks on that peculiar feature in
the histories of many Saints, which is least in accordance with the
popular ideas of modern times. A mere translation, or republication of a
foreign or ancient book, does not necessarily imply any degree of assent
to the principles involved in the original writer's statements. The new
version or edition may be nothing more than a work of antiquarian or
literary interest, by no means professing any thing more than a belief
that persons will be found who will, from some motive or other, be glad
to read it.

Not so, however, in the case of a biography which, though not pretending
to present the results of fresh researches, does profess to give an
account new in shape, and adapted to the wants of the day in which
it asks its share of public attention. In this case no person can
honourably write, and no editor can honourably sanction, any statements
but such as are not only possible and probable, but, allowing
for the degree of authenticity in each case claimed, on the whole
historically true. No honest man, who absolutely disbelieves in all
documents in which the original chronicler has mingled accounts of
supernatural events with the record of his own personal knowledge,
could possibly either write or edit such Lives as those included in
the following pages; still less could they be made public by one who
disbelieves in the reality of modern miracles altogether.

In presenting, then, the present and other similar volumes to the
ordinary reader, I anticipate some such questions as these: "Do you
really put these stories into our hands as history? Are these marvellous
tales to be regarded as poetry, romance, superstitious dreaming, or as
historical realities? If you profess to believe in their truth, how do
you reconcile their character with the universal aspect of human life,
as it appears _to us and to our friends?_ And finally, if you claim for
them the assent to which proved facts have a right from every candid
mind, to what extent of detail do you profess to believe in their
authenticity?" To these and similar questions I reply by the following
observations:

The last of these questions may be answered briefly. The lives of Saints
and other remarkable personages, which are here and elsewhere laid in
a popular form before the English public, are not all _equally_ to be
relied on as undoubtedly true in their various minute particulars. They
stand precisely on the same footing as the ordinary events of purely
secular history; and precisely the same degree of assent is claimed
for them that the common reason of humanity accords to the general
chronicles of our race. No man, who writes or edits a history of distant
events, professes to have precisely the same amount of certainty as to
all the many details which he records. Of some his certainty is all but
absolute; of others he can say that he considers them highly probable;
of a third class he only alleges that they are vouched for by
respectable though not numerous authorities., Still, he groups them
together in one complete and continuous story, and gives them to the
world as _history;_ nor does the world impute to him either dishonesty,
ignorance, credulity, or shallowness, because in every single event he
does not specify the exact amount of evidence on which his statement
rests.

Just such is the measure of belief to be conceded to the Life of St.
Frances, and other biographies or sketches of a similar kind. Some
portions, and those the most really important and prominent, are well
ascertained, incontrovertible, and substantially true. Others again, in
all likelihood, took place very much, though not literally, in the way
in which they are recorded. Of others, they were possibly, or even
probably, the mere colouring of the writer, or were originally adopted
on uninvestigated rumour. They are all, however, consistent with known
facts, and the laws on which humanity is governed by Divine Providence;
and therefore, as they may be true, they take their place in that vast
multitude of histories which all candid and well-informed persons agree
in accepting as worthy of credit, though in various degrees.

Supposing, then, that miraculous events may and do occur in the present
state of the world's history, it is obvious that these various degrees
of assent are commanded alike by the supernatural and the natural
events which are here so freely mingled together. Some are undoubtedly
true, others are probably either fictitious or incorrectly recorded.
The substance rests on the genuine documents, originally written by
eye-witnesses and perfectly competent judges; and as such, the whole
stands simply as a result of the gathering together of historical
testimony.

Here, however, the ordinary English reader meets us with the assertion,
that the supernatural portions of such lives are simply _impossible_. He
assumes--for I am not exaggerating when I say that he never tries _to
prove_--that these marvellous interruptions of the laws of nature never
take place. Consequently, in his judgment, it is purely ridiculous to
put forth such stories as history; and writers who issue them are guilty
either of folly, ignorance, superstition, or an unprincipled tampering
with the credulity of unenlightened minds. Of those who thus meet the
question of historical evidence by an assumption of a universal abstract
impossibility, I earnestly beg an unprejudiced attention to the
following considerations:

If it be once admitted that there is a God, and that the soul is not
a mere portion of the body, the existence of miracles becomes at once
probable. Apart from the records of experience, we should in fact have
expected that events which are now termed miraculous would have been
perhaps as common as those which are regulated by what we call the laws
of nature. Let it be only granted that the visible universe is not the
_whole_ universe, and that in reality we are ever in a state of most
intimate _real_ communion with Him who is its Creator; then, I say,
we should have expected to have been as habitually conscious of our
intercourse with that great Being, as of our intercourse with one
another. The true marvel is, that we are not thus habitually conscious
of the Divine Presence, and that God is really out of our sight. If
there is a God, who is ever around us and within us, _why_ does He not
communicate with us through the medium of our senses, as He enables us
to communicate with one another? Our souls hold mutual communion through
the intervention of this corporal frame, with such a distinct and
undeniable reality, that we are as _conscious_ of our intercourse as
of the contact of a material substance with our material bodies. Why,
then,--since it is so infinitely more important to us to hold ceaseless
communication with our Maker,--why is it that our intercourse with Him
is of a totally different nature? Why is it that the material creation
is not the ordinary instrument by which our souls converse with Him? Let
any man seriously ponder upon this awful question, and he must hasten to
the conclusion, that though experience has shown us that the world of
matter is not the _ordinary_ channel of converse between God and man,
there yet remains an overwhelming probability that some such intercourse
takes place _occasionally_ between, the soul and that God through whose
power alone she continues to exist.

In other words, the existence of miracles is probable rather than
otherwise. A miracle is an event in which the laws of nature are
interrupted by the intervention of Divine agency, usually for the
purpose of bringing the soul of man into a conscious contact with the
inhabitants of the invisible world. With more or less exactness of
similitude, a miracle establishes between God and man, or between other
spiritual beings and man, that same kind of intercourse which exists
between different living individuals of the human race. Such a conscious
intercourse is indeed asserted by infidels as well as by atheists,
to be, if not impossible, at least so utterly improbable, that it is
scarcely within the power of proof to make it credible to the unbiased
reason. Yet surely the balance of probability inclines to the very
opposite side. If there _is_ a God, and our souls _are_ in communication
(of some kind) with Him, surely, prior to experience, we should have
expected to be habitually conscious of this communion. And now that we
see that we are not at any rate habitually so, still the burden of proof
rests with those who allege that such conscious intercourse _never_
takes place. Apart from all proof of the reality of any one professed
miracle, the infidel is bound to show _why_ all miracles are improbable
or impossible; in other words, why man should never be conscious of the
presence and will of his ever-present God.

Protestants, however, and even weak Catholics, regard the record of one
of those mysterious lives, in which the soul of a man or woman has been
repeatedly brought into this species of communion with invisible beings,
as a tale which, though it is just possible that it may be true, is yet,
on the face of it, so flagrant a violation of the laws of nature, as
to be undeserving of positive hearty belief. They confound the laws of
physical nature with the laws of universal nature. They speak of the
nature of this material earth, as if it was identical with the _nature
of things_. And this confusion of thought it is to which I would
especially call attention. Miracles are contrary to the ordinary laws of
physical nature, and therefore are so far improbable, but they are in
the strictest conformity with the nature of things, and therefore _in
themselves_ are probable. If the laws of nature rule God as they control
man, a miracle is almost an impossibility; but if God rules the laws of
nature, then it is wonderful that something miraculous does not befall us
every day of our lives.

Again, it is in a high degree probable that miraculous events will
generally, so to say, take their colour from the special character of
that relation which may exist between God and man at the time when they
come to pass. If, in the inscrutable counsels of the Almighty, man is
placed, during different eras in his history, in different circumstances
towards his Creator and Preserver, it would seem only natural that
the variations in those circumstances should be impressed upon the
extraordinary intercourse between God and His people. Or, to use the
common Christian term, each _dispensation_ will have its peculiar
supernatural aspect, as well as its peculiar spiritual and invisible
relationship. If man was originally in a higher and more perfect state
of being than he is now, it is probable that his communion with God was
singularly, if not totally, unlike what it has been since he fell from
primeval blessedness. If after his fall, two temporary states have been
appointed to him by his God, then the miracles of each epoch will bear
their own special corresponding characteristics. And lastly, if by a
new exercise of regenerating and restoring power it has pleased the
Invisible One to rescue His creatures from the consequences of their
ancient ruin, then again we may expect to recognise the history of that
redemption in the whole course of the miraculous intercourse between
the Redeemer and the redeemed until the end of time. The supernatural
elements in the Paradisiacal, the Patriarchal, the Mosaic, and the
Christian states, may be expected to be in many respects distinct, each
embodying with awful and glorious power the invisible relations which
the God of nature and of grace has thought fit to assume towards His
creatures.

And such, in fact, has been the case. Not only is the ceaseless
existence of a miraculous intercourse between God and man one of the
most completely proved of all historical events, but the miracles of
each dispensation are found in a wonderful degree to correspond with
the relationship of God to man in each of the separate epochs. The same
superhuman consistency is found to pervade all the works of God, both
where nature and grace are separate from one another, and where the
common laws of nature are burst through, and the material universe
is made as it were the bondslave of the unseen. The impiously meant
assertions of unbelief are fulfilled in a sense which unbelievers little
look for; and they who cry out in their hatred of miracles, that all
things are governed by unchanging _law_, may learn that in truth
unchanging laws do rule over all, although those laws have a range and a
unity in the essence and will of God, of which mortal intelligence
never dreamed. The natural and the supernatural, the visible and the
invisible, the ordinary and the miraculous, the rules of the physical
creation and the interruptions of those rules,--all are controlled by
one law, shaped according to one plan, directed by one aim, and bound to
one another by indissoluble ties, even where to human eyes all seem lost
in confusion and thwarted by mutual struggle.

Of what we should now call the miraculous, or supernatural, communion
between God and man in Paradise, we know historically but little. The
records of revelation being for the most part confined to the state of
man as he is, and his actual and future prospects, present but a glimpse
of the conscious communion which was permitted to the first of our race
in their original bliss. It is, however, believed by theologians, that
in Paradise what we should now term miracles did not exist; for this
reason, that what is now extraordinary was then ordinary. God conversed
with man, and man held communion with angels, directly and habitually;
so that in a certain sense man saw God and the world now unseen.
[Footnote: See St. Thomas, Summa, pars prima, quæst. 94. art. 1,2.] For
it is not the mere possession of a body which binds the soul with the
chains of sense; it is the corruption and sinfulness of our present
frames which has converted them into a barrier between the spirit within
and the invisible universe. As Adam came forth all pure and perfect from
the hands of his Creator, a soul dwelling in a body, his whole being
ministered fitly to the purposes of his creation, and with body and soul
together he conversed with his God. It was not till the physical sense
became his instrument of rebellion, that it was dishonoured and made his
prison-house, and laid under a curse which should never be fully removed
until the last great day of the resurrection.

Upon the fall of Adam, a new state was introduced, which lasted
about two thousand five hundred years. During its continuance, the
supernatural intercourse between Almighty God and His degraded creatures
took an entirely different character. What had originally been
continual, and as it were natural, became comparatively rare and
miraculous. Henceforth there _seemed_ to be no God among men, save when
at times the usual laws of the earth and the heavens were suspended
and God spoke in accents which none might refuse to hear. Of these
supernatural manifestations the general aspect was essentially typical
of the future redemption of the lost race by a Saviour. That promise
of deliverance from the consequences of sin, which Almighty God had
vouchsafed to the first sinners, was repeated in a vast variety of
miraculous interventions. Though there may have been many exceptions to
the ordinary character of the Patriarchal miracles, still, on the whole,
they wear a typical aspect of the most striking prominence.

The first miracle recorded after the fall is the token granted to Abel
that his _sacrifice_ was accepted. A deluge destroys all but one family,
who are saved in an ark, the type of the Church of God, and a rainbow is
set in the sky as a type of the covenant between God and man. A child is
miraculously born to Abraham in his old age, who is afterwards offered
to God as a type of the Redeemer, and saved from death by a fresh
supernatural manifestation of the Divine will. The chosen race become
captive in Egypt, as a figure of man's bondage to sin; a series of awful
miracles, wrought by the instrumentality of Moses himself, a type of
Jesus Christ, delivers them from their slavery, terminating with the
institution of the Passover, when the paschal lamb is eaten, and they
are saved by its blood, as mankind is saved by the blood of the Lamb
of God. The ransomed people miraculously pass through the Red Sea,
foreshadowing the Christian's regeneration by baptism; as they wander
afterwards in the desert, manna descends from heaven to feed them, and
water gushes from the rock to quench their thirst, and to prefigure that
sacred food and those streams of grace which are to be the salvation of
all men. Almost every interruption of the laws of nature bespeaks the
advent of the Redeemer, and does homage to Him as the Lord of earth and
heaven.

At length a code of laws is given to the chosen race, to separate them
completely from the rest of men, and a promise of perpetual temporal
prosperity is granted to them by God as the reward of their obedience,
and as a figure of the eternal blessedness of the just. From that time
with, as before, occasional exceptions, the supernatural events which
befall them wear a new aspect. Their peculiarly typical import is
exchanged for one more precisely in conformity with the leading
principle of the new dispensation. The rites and ceremonies of the new
Law prefigure the Sacrifice and Redemption of the Messias; but the
miracles of the next fifteen hundred years are for the most part
directed to uphold that rule of present reward and punishment, which was
the characteristic feature of the Jewish theocracy. The earth opens to
punish the disobedience of Core and his companions. Fiery serpents
smite the murmuring crowd with instant death; while the promised Saviour
is prefigured, not by a miracle, but by the erection of a brazen serpent
by the hands of Moses. The walls of Jericho fall prostrate before the
trumpets of the victorious Israelites; one man, Achan, unlawfully
conceals some of the spoil, and an immediate supernatural panic, struck
into his countrymen, betrays the committal of the sin. Miraculous water
fills the fleece of Gideon, to encourage him to fight for his country's
deliverance. An angel foretells the birth of Samson to set his people
free, when they are again in bondage. Samson himself is endowed with
supernatural strength; exhausted with the slaughter of his foes, he
prays for water to quench his thirst, and a stream bursts forth from the
ass's jawbone with which he had just slain the Philistines. Bound in
chains, blinded, and made a jest by the idolaters, his prayer for a
return of his strength is heard by God, and he destroys a multitude in
his last moments.

And thus, through all the history of the Kings and the Prophets, the
power of God is repeatedly put forth to alter the laws of nature for the
purpose of enforcing the great rule of the Mosaic law. The disobedience
of the Jews might, if God had so pleased, have been invariably punished
by the instrumentality of the ordinary course of events, shaped by the
secret hand of Divine Providence so as to execute His will, just as
now we find that certain sins inevitably bring on their own temporal
punishment by the operation of the laws of nature. And so, in the vast
majority of instances in which the Jews were rewarded and punished,
we find that the Divine promises and threats were fulfilled by the
occurrence of events in the natural order of things. But yet frequently
miracles confirmed and aided the work of chastisement and blessing; and
of the numerous wonders which were wrought from the giving of the law
to the coming of Christ, we find that nearly all bore this peculiar
character. For many centuries also a constant miraculous guidance was
granted to the people in the "Urim and Thummim," by which they were
enabled, when they chose to remain faithful, to escape all national
calamities and enjoy the fullest blessings of the promised land.

Under the Christian dispensation, again, a new character is imprinted
upon the supernatural history of the Church, which is, in fact, the
impression of the Cross of Christ. While the characteristics of the
Patriarchal and Jewish miracles are not wholly obliterated, an element,
which if not entirely new, is new in the intensity of its operation, is
introduced into the miraculous life of the children of Christ, which
life is really the prolongation of the supernatural life of Jesus Christ
Himself. It is accompanied also with a partial restoration of that
peculiar power which was possessed by man before he fell, when his
body became a veil to hide the world of spirits from his soul. While
prophecies of future events have not wholly ceased in the Christian
Church, and miracles are frequently wrought for the conferring of some
temporal blessings, yet these other wonderful features distinguish the
supernatural records of Christianity from those of both Patriarchal
and Jewish times. The undying power of the Cross is manifested in the
peculiar sufferings of the Saints, in their mystic communion with
the invisible world, and in that especial sanctity to which alone
miraculous gifts are for the most part accorded under the Gospel. Not
that all these three peculiarities are to be observed in the life of
every Saint under the Gospel. Far from it, indeed. The supernatural
life of the Saints varies with different individuals, according to the
pleasure of that Almighty Spirit, who communicates Himself to His elect
in ten thousand mysterious ways, and manifests Himself according to His
own will alone. Still, at times, they are found united, in conjunction
with those miraculous powers which were possessed under the old
dispensations in one individual. In such cases we behold the Life and
Passion of the King of Saints visibly renewed before our eyes; the
law of _suffering_,--that mysterious power, as life-giving as it is
unfathomable,--is set before us in an intensity of operation, which at
once calls forth the scoffs of the unbeliever, and quickens the faith of
the humble Christian; the privileges of eternity are anticipated, and
the blessings of a lost Paradise are in part restored. Jesus Christ
lives, and is in agony before us; the dread scene of Calvary is renewed,
united with those ineffable communications between the suffering soul
and its God, which accompanied the life and last hours of the Redeemer
of mankind. Our adorable Lord is, as it were, still incarnate amongst
us, displaying to our reverent faith the glories of His Passion in the
persons of those who are, in the highest sense that is possible, His
members, a portion of His humanity, in whom He dwells, who dwell in Him,
and whose life, in a degree incomprehensible even to themselves, is hid
with Christ in God. Such a Saint was St. Frances of Rome, one of those
glorious creations of Divine grace by means of which, at the time when
the Holy City was filled with bloodshed and ravaged with pestilence, and
when the heaviest disasters afflicted the Church, Almighty God set
forth before men the undying life of the Cross, and the reality of that
religion which seemed to be powerless to check the outrages of its
professed followers.

In Paradise, then, as has been said, the whole nature of man ministered
to the fulfilment of the end for which he was created, namely, the
knowledge and love of God. He came forth from his Maker's hands endowed
not only with a natural soul and body untainted with sin, but with such
supernatural gifts, arising from the Divine Presence within him, that
nothing was wanting but perseverance to his final perfection. The
various elements in his nature were not, as now, at war with one
another. His body did not blind the eye of his soul, and agitate it with
the storms of concupiscence; nor did the soul employ the body as its
instrument of rebellion against God. Though not yet admitted to that
glorious vision of the Eternal which was to be the reward of his
obedience, yet he lived in direct commerce with the world of spirits. He
knew and conversed with God and His angels in a way which is now wholly
incomprehensible to the vast majority of his descendants.

When Adam fell, he became, in one word, what we all are now by nature.
Not only was he placed under a curse, but his God was hidden from his
eyes; and that corporeal habitation, which he had abused to his soul's
destruction, became the prison of his soul's captivity. Though
created in the image of God, and retaining, even when fallen, certain
traces of his celestial origin, he became a mere helpless denizen of
earth, and a veil descended and hid his God and all spiritual beings
from his mind. From that time forwards _suffering_ became not merely the
law of his daily life, but the only means by which he could be first
restored to the Divine favour, and finally be taken to a happy eternity.
And inasmuch as he was to be redeemed by the sufferings of One who
was at once man and not man, He was in a certain sense to share those
sufferings, in order to partake in the blessings they purchased for him.
A mystic union was to take place between the Saviour and the fallen
race, of which a community in suffering, as the instrument of
restoration, was to be for ever and in every case established. This
anguish, further, was to be twofold, including all the faculties both of
the body and the soul. Man had sinned in his whole being; in his whole
being, therefore, he was to suffer, both in the person of his Redeemer,
who was to suffer for him, and in himself, who was to suffer with his
Saviour. A "holocaust" was to be offered to the offended Majesty of God;
an offering, not only of his _entire_ nature, but a _burnt_ offering; a
sacrifice which should torture him in the flames of Divine vengeance,
and kill him with its annihilating fierceness.

As, however, it pleased the Divine Wisdom to postpone for forty
centuries the advent and atonement of the Redeemer, so, for the same
period, the race redeemed participated, in a comparatively slight
degree, in those restorative sufferings which derived all their virtue
from the sacrifice upon the Cross. Pangs of body and bitterness of soul
were, in truth, the lot of man from the moment that Adam sinned; but
they were the pangs and bitterness of a criminal under punishment, far
more than the sacrificial pains of the members of Christ crucified.
Asceticism formed but a small portion of the religious worship of the
people of God, until the great atonement was completed upon Calvary. Not
that any degree, even the lowest, of acceptable obedience could ever be
attained without some measure of the crucifixion of the natural man.
Patriarchs and Israelites alike felt the power of the Cross as the
instrument of their sanctification. But still earthly prosperity,
including bodily pleasures, was, as a rule, the reward with which God
recompensed His faithful servants. That which became the rule under the
Gospel, was the exception from Adam till Moses, and from Moses until
Christ. Here and there some great example of Christian asceticism
enforced upon a sensual people the nature of perfect sanctity. Elias
fasted on Mount Carmel, and beheld the skirts of the glory of the Most
High. The Baptist fasted and tamed his natural flesh in the wilderness,
and beheld not only the Incarnate Son of God, but the descent of the
Eternal Spirit upon Him. Yet, for the most part, the favoured servants
of God lived the lives of ordinary men; they possessed houses, riches,
and honours; and married wives, even more than one.

At length the Cross was set up in all its awful power; suffering
received its perfect consecration, and took its ruling place in the
economy of man's redemption. Jesus, in descending from the Cross,
bestowed that Cross upon His children, to be their treasure until the
end of the world. Crucifixion with Him, and through Him, as their Head,
became their portion and their glory. Every soul that was so buried
in His wounds as to receive the full blessings of His sacrifice, was
thereby nailed, in Christ, to the Cross, not to descend from its
hallowed wood until, like Christ, it was dead thereon. Henceforth the
sanctity of God's chosen servants assumes its new character. It is no
longer written, "I will bring you into a land flowing with the milk and
honey of this earth;" but, "Blessed are the poor, and they that suffer
persecution." The lot of Abraham and of David is exchanged for that of
St. Peter and St. Paul. In place of triumph in war with the idolaters,
the Christian is _promised_ persecution; in place of many herds and
flocks, and treasures of gold, God _gives_ him poverty and sickness; the
fast, the vigil, the scourge, take place of the palaces of cedar and
the luxuriant couch; marriage gives way to celibacy; and long life is a
privilege in order that in many years we may suffer much, and not that
we may enjoy much. Such is the ordinary course of the Divine dealings
with the soul since the Cross received its full mysterious saving power.

And to the full as mysterious is the new character imprinted upon
the miraculous life of Christian sanctity. The phenomena of that new
existence, in which certain souls are brought into mystic communion with
the unseen world, bear the print of the wounds of the Eternal Son in
a manner which fills the ordinary Christian mind with amazement and
trembling. It is by a painful crucifixion of the natural man, both soul
and body, carried to a far more than ordinary perfection, that the soul
is introduced into this miraculous condition. Imprisoned in her fleshly
tabernacle, which, though regenerated, is through sin foul, earthly,
and blinding as ever, the mind can only be admitted to share in the
communion which Jesus Christ unceasingly held with His Father and with
the world invisible, by attaining some portion of that self-mastery
which Adam lost by his fall. The physical nature must be subdued by the
vigorous repetition of those many painful processes by which the animal
portion of our being is rendered the slave of the spiritual, and the
will and the affections are rent away from all creatures, to be fixed on
God alone. Fasting and abstinence are the first elements in this ascetic
course. The natural taste is neglected, thwarted, and tormented, till,
wearied of soliciting its own gratification, it ceases to interfere with
the independent action of the soul. The appetite is further denied
its wonted satisfaction as to quantity of food. By fasts gradually
increasing in severity, new modes of physical existence are introduced;
that which was originally an impossibility becomes a second law of
nature; and the emaciated frame, forgetting its former lusts, obeys
almost spontaneously the dictates of the victorious spirit within.
The hours of sleep are curtailed under judicious control, until that
mysterious sentence which compels us to pass a third of our existence in
unconscious helplessness is in part repealed. The soul, habituated to
incessant and self-collected action, wakes and lives, while ordinary
Christians slumber, and as it were are dead. The infliction of other
severe bodily pains co-operates in the purifying process, and enables
the mind to disregard the dictates of nature to an extent which to
many Catholics seems almost incredible, and to the unbeliever an utter
impossibility. Physical life is supported under conditions which would
crush a constitution not supported by the miraculous aid of almighty
power; and feeble men and women accomplish works of charity and heroic
self-sacrifice from which the most robust and energetic of the human
race, in their highest state of _natural_ perfection, would shrink
back in dismay as hopeless impossibilities. The senses are literally
tyrannised over, scorned, derided, insultingly trampled on. The sight,
the smell, the hearing, the touch, and the taste, are taught to exercise
themselves upon objects revolting to their original inclinations. They
learn to minister to the will without displaying one rebellious symptom.
Matter yields to spirit; the soul is the master of the body; while the
perceptions of the intelligence attain an exquisite sensibility, and the
mind is gifted with faculties absolutely new, the flesh submits, almost
insensible to its condition of servitude, and scarcely murmurs at the
daily death it is compelled to endure.

The process is the same in all that regards the affections and passions
of the mind itself. The heart is denied every thing that it desires,
which is not God. However innocent, however praiseworthy, may be the
indulgence in certain feelings, and the gratification of certain
pursuits in ordinary Christians, in the case of these favoured souls
nature is crushed in _all_ her parts. Her faculties remain, but they are
directed to spiritual things alone. Possessions of all kinds, lands,
houses, books, pictures, gardens, husband, wife, children, friends,
--all share the same tremendous sentence. God establishes Himself
in the soul, not only supreme, but as the _only inhabitant_. Whatsoever
remains to be done in this world is done as a duty, often as a most
obnoxious duty. Love for the souls that Christ has redeemed is the only
human feeling that is left unsubjugated; and wheresoever the emotions of
natural affection and friendship mingle with this Christian love, they
are watched, and restrained with unsparing severity, that the heart may
come at last to love nothing, except _in_ Christ Himself.

All this, indeed, repeatedly takes place in the case of persons in
whom the purely miraculous life of the Christian Saint is never even
commenced. It is that which all monks and nuns are bound to struggle
for, according to the different rules to which they have respectively
received their vocation. And, by the mercy of God, this perfect
detachment from earth, and this marvellous crucifixion of the flesh, is
accomplished in many a devout religious, to whom the _extraordinary_
gifts of the Holy Ghost are as unknown as His extraordinary graces are
familiar. Still, in those exceptional instances where miraculous powers
of any species are bestowed, this bitter death, this personal renewal
(as far as man can renew it) of the agonies of Calvary, is ordinarily
the necessary preparation for admission to the revelations of the Divine
glory, and to the other mysteries of the miraculous life.

The physical nature, then, being thus subdued, and taught to be the
obedient servant of the sanctified will, the history of the Catholic
Church records a long series of instances in which the soul has been
brought into direct communion with God, with angels, and with devils,
more or less through the _sensible_ instrumentality of the bodily
senses, thus spiritualised and exalted to a new office. The ineffable
glories of the _life_ of Christ are renewed in those who have thus
endured the _cross_ of Christ. The death of the body is the life of the
soul; and the Son of God is, as it were, again visibly incarnate in the
world which He has redeemed.

The phenomena of this miraculous state are as various as they are
wonderful. There is scarcely a natural law of our being which is not
found to be frequently suspended. Such is the _odour of sanctity_,
a celestial perfume that exhales from the person of the Saint, in
conditions where any such delicious fragrance could not possibly spring
from natural causes, and where even, as in the case of a dead body,
nature would send forth scents of the most repulsive kind. In such
instances, sometimes in life, sometimes in death, sometimes in health,
sometimes in loathsome diseases, there issues from the physical frame an
odour of unearthly sweetness, perhaps communicating itself to objects
which touch the saintly form.

Or a strange supernatural warmth pervades the entire body, wholly
independent of the condition of the atmosphere, and in circumstances
when by the laws of nature the limbs would be cold; sometimes, while
sickness has reduced the system to such a degree of exhaustion, and
brought on so morbid an action of the functions, that the stomach
rejects, with a sort of abhorrence, every species of food, the most holy
Eucharist is received without difficulty, and seems not only to be thus
received, but to furnish sufficient sustenance for the attenuated frame.
Not unfrequently corruption has no power over a sacred corpse; and
without the employment of any of the common processes for embalming,
centuries pass away, and the body of the Saint remains untouched by
decay, bearing the impress of life in death, and not crumbling to dust,
as in cases of natural preservation, when exposed to the action of the
atmosphere. Add to these, the supernatural flexibility and lightness
with which at times the living body is endowed by Divine power; the
physical accompaniment of ecstasy; the elevation of the entire body from
the ground, and its suspension in the air for a considerable space of
time; and we have sufficient examples of the mysterious ways in which
the bodies of Saints bespeak the purity which dwells within them, and
in a degree anticipate the corporeal perfections of those glorified
habitations in which the souls of the just will dwell after the
resurrection.

By another class of miraculous powers possessed by Christian Saints,
they are enabled to recognise the true nature or presence of purely
spiritual objects by the instrumentality of their natural organs of
sense. Thus, a mere touch at times reveals to them the moral condition
of the person on whom they lay their hands. A singular distaste for
natural food is accompanied by a perception of a celestial sweetness in
the holy Eucharist. Gross sinners appear to the sight in the form of
hideous monsters, demoniacal in their aspect, or as wearing the look of
the most repulsive of the brute creation. The sense of smell, in like
manner, detects the state of the soul, while the ear is opened to
heavenly sounds and voices, and Almighty God speaks to the inner
consciousness in a manner which, inexplicable as it is when defined
in the language of human science, is shown by incontestable proofs to be
a real communication from heaven to the enlightened intelligence.

In certain cases the animal creation are taught to do homage to the
presence of a Saint. As God opened the eyes of Balaam's ass, and it
beheld the messenger of Divine wrath standing with a sword in his hand,
so birds, fishes, insects, sheep, and the wildest beasts of the forests,
have at times saluted the Saints with joy and sweetness, laying aside
their natural timidity or their natural ferocity, and recalling the hour
when Adam dwelt in sinless peace in Eden, surrounded by the creatures
which the hand of God had made. All nature is bid thus to arise to
welcome the elect of the Lord of nature. Flowers spring up beneath their
feet; fruits suddenly ripen, and invite them to gather and eat; storms
cease, and gentle winds refresh the sky. Every where the presence of Him
who lulled the tempest with a word is recognised in the souls in whom He
dwells, and in whom He thus, in a mystic sense, fulfils His own promise,
that the meek shall possess the land.

Thus, again, time and space are in their degree comparatively
annihilated for the sake of some of these favoured servants of the
Eternal and Omnipresent. St. Pius V., while bodily in Rome, was a
witness of the naval victory of the Christians over the Turks; St.
Joseph of Cupertino read letters addressed to him while their authors
were writing them far away; St. Dominic foresaw the war of the
Albigenses, and the death of Peter of Arragon; and St. Ignatius beheld
his successor in the Duke of Gandia. A similar mysterious faculty
enables its possessor to discern the presence of relics and other sacred
objects, more especially of the adorable Eucharistic species; or even to
behold Jesus Christ Himself in His glorified human form, in place of the
usual appearance of bread and wine; while in some instances the Host
has darted, unborne by mortal hand, into the mouth of a Saint about to
communicate at the foot of the altar.

On those species of miracles which are in no way peculiar to the
Christian dispensation I need not linger. Such is the gift of healing,
whether by the Saint's will and touch while alive, or by his relics and
intercession when dead. Such is the gift of prophecy, which abounded, as
we might have expected, far more in the Saints before the advent of
the Redeemer than since His coming, and which, indeed, was not rigidly
confined to men of religious character. Such are those supernatural
powers by which our present temporal blessings, in addition to the
cure of diseases, are conferred upon individuals or communities by the
instrumentality of holy men and women. I confine myself to those more
peculiarly Christian privileges, which, though they were not wholly
unknown to the Patriarchal and Mosaic Saints, are yet eminently
characteristic of those times in which the glorification of the humanity
of Jesus appears to have shed a measure of glories upon the bodies of
those who most intensely share the sufferings of His cross.

Some of these tokens of the perpetual death of the Son of God in
His Saints were, indeed, for several centuries either unknown, or
extraordinarily rare in the Christian Church herself. Such is that most
awful of the displays of the undying power of the Cross, in which the
actual wounds and tortures of the crucified Jesus are visibly renewed,
by a miraculous agency, in the persons of His chosen ones. This most
terrible of the gifts of the great God is generally preceded by some
supernatural occurrence foreshadowing the visible representation of the
scene on Calvary about to be set up before the eyes of men. At one time
it is a species of bloody sweat, like that of Jesus Christ in the garden
of Gethsemani; at another, a visible print of the cross is impressed
upon the shoulders; or angels present a mystic cup of suffering to
the hands of the self-sacrificing Saint. Then follows what is termed
_stigmatisation_, or the renewal of the actual wounds of the Crucified,
accompanied with the bloody marks of the crown of thorns upon the
sufferer's head; for the most part one by one, until the whole awful
commemoration is complete, the skin and flesh are rent on the forehead
and round the head, in the hands, in the feet, and in the side; a stream
of gore pours forth, at times trickling down in slow drops, at times (as
on Fridays) in a fuller tide, accompanied with agonising pangs of body,
and except in the fiercest moments of spiritual conflict, with interior
consolations of ravishing sweetness. The wounds pierce deep down into
the flesh, running even through the hands and the feet.

The state of _ecstasy_ is another of the most wonderful of the elements
of the miraculous life of the Saints. Under the Divine influence the
physical frame undergoes a change in many respects similar to that which
is supposed (whether truly or falsely) to result from the operation of
magnetism or somnambulism. Many features, at the same time, distinguish
the Christian ecstatic condition from that which is produced by purely
physical or (it may be) diabolical causes, on which we cannot at present
enter in detail. It is sufficient to say, that the results of the true
ecstasy are in the strictest conformity with the doctrines of the
Christian revelation, and in perfect harmony with the perfections and
rules of the _moral_ world.

The soul in this state becomes, as it were, independent of the power of
the body, or she uses her physical senses in an absolute subordination
to her own illumined will. Visions, such as are recorded in the Old
Testament in the case of the prophets, are presented to her faculties.
She is introduced into the courts of heaven, and beholds and converses
with Saints in glory, with the Mother of God, with Jesus Christ
Himself. Or the whole mystery of the Passion is re-enacted before her
spiritualised sight, the evangelical history being filled up with all
those actual but minuter details which are omitted in the written
records of the Gospels. In certain cases, the body itself is lifted up
from the ground, and so remains for a while in the presence of a crowd
of bystanders. In others, the soul, while in ecstasy, is the medium of
communication between Almighty God and other persons then present, and
the Saint's voice repeats the revelations to those for whom they are
designed. Or, again, an unearthly flame shining around the head or whole
person of the ecstatic, like the cloven tongues upon the Apostles at
Pentecost, attests the presence of the Invisible, and symbolises the
message sent forth from His throne to men.

A more purely intellectual vision or revelation is another of the works
of the Holy Ghost in His Saints. By such revelations, for the most part,
the truths of holy Scripture were communicated to its writers. God, who
created the human soul with all its faculties, and who is able to make
known His will in any way that He pleases to the intelligence, has His
own mysterious but not less accurate tests, by which He enables the
favoured spirit to discern a revelation from a mere product of the
human imagination, and to distinguish between the voice of God and the
suggestions of Satan. Nor was this mode of intercourse between the
soul and her God confined exclusively to the elder dispensations or
to apostolic ages. Many a Christian Saint has been privileged to
contemplate God Himself, in a certain sense, in His essence; beholding
the depths of such mysteries as those of the Holy Trinity, the
Incarnation, the Eucharistic Presence, or the true nature of sin, with a
directness of vision, and comprehending them to an extent, which passes
the powers of human language to define.

Lastly, all that we read in the Bible respecting the visible and
tangible intercourse between man and the angelic and diabolic host is
continued in the times of Christianity. The reality of the ministration
of angels and of the assaults of demons, in the case of all Christians,
is believed by every Catholic; but in very many cases the Saints have
become as conscious of the presence and actions of their unseen friends
and foes as of the presence and actions of mortal men. To some Saints,
our blessed Lord Himself has appeared in human form, perhaps in that of
the most despised and miserable of the poor and sick; to others, their
guardian-angels or other pure spirits have presented themselves,
sometimes in the guise of ordinary men, and sometimes in a manifestly
supernatural shape. Often, too, the enlightened soul has beheld Satan
and his accursed spirits, either working it some bodily injury, or
assaulting it with some subtle temptation, or seeking to scare it by
assuming some hideous loathsome shape, or assuming the garb of an angel
of light for the purpose of accomplishing his hellish ends. Of all these
supernatural phenomena, however, illustrations will readily occur to
those who are familiar with the lives of Saints, or, indeed, to those
who have studied the Bible only, and who read the inspired writings as
really _true_, remembering that the miraculous events there recorded did
not cease the moment that the canon of Scripture was closed, but that
such as was the relation between God and man and angels and devils for
more than four thousand years, such it has been until this very hour.

Such, then, are the doctrines and opinions which are implied in what
may be termed the miraculous life of Catholic Saints, and of which the
history of Frances of Rome presents one of the most remarkable examples.
They are here but briefly sketched: but I trust that enough has been
said to indicate the general character of the principles involved in
these wonderful histories; and I now pass on to offer a few remarks on
the self-contradictions into which those persons fall who refuse to
investigate this species of subject on the ordinary rules of historical
evidence.

I need hardly remind the reader that an immense number of persons,
both infidels and Protestants, especially in sober-minded England and
Scotland, treat every professed Catholic miracle as a portion of the
vast gigantic system of deliberate fraud and villany which they conceive
to be the very life of Catholicism. From the Pope to the humblest priest
who says Mass and hears confessions in an ugly little chapel in the
shabbiest street of a country town, all are regarded as leagued in
one wide-spreading imposture. Pius IX., for instance, it is imagined,
_knows_ the liquefaction of St. Januarius's blood to be a trick of the
Neapolitan clergy; but he keeps up the falsehood for the sake of gain
and power. In like manner, he has an extensive Roman laboratory ever at
work for the manufacture of all the instruments of delusion which his
emissaries propagate throughout Christendom. There he makes false
relics, from portions of the true cross downwards; there he sells
pardons and indulgences; and there he has a _corps_ of writers employed
in the invention of fictitious miraculous tales, saints' lives, and the
like. All over the world he has "agents" for the sale of these goods,
the Catholic Bishops in England being his "English Correspondents," who
doubtless receive a handsome percentage on the profits realised. The
staff of underlings is also complete, energetic, and well paid. Thus,
the Oratorian Fathers are busily employed in scattering "Saints' Lives"
throughout this country, greatly to their own profit. Thus, too, I am
myself engaged in a similar work, either laughing in my sleeve at the
credulity on which I practise, or submitting from sheer intellectual
incompetence to be the tool of some wily Jesuit who enjoins the
unhallowed task. Such, when drawn out into details, and stripped of the
pompous declamation of the platform, is, in serious truth, the idea
which innumerable persons imagine to be the Catholic system of
propagandism and deceit; and every Catholic miracle is thus accounted
for by the supposed wickedness of all Catholics, except a few blinded
ignorant devotees.

Any argument, therefore, addressed to prejudgments of this class must
merge in the general argument, which shows that, whether the Catholic
religion be true or false, it is beyond the limits of credibility that
its ruling principle can be one of intentional deception. I insist,
then, that it would not merely be a miracle,--if is an _impossibility_
that such an imposture should remain undetected to this day, and that
men and women of all ranks, ages, and countries, the ablest and the most
simple, including uncounted fathers and mothers of families, should
persist in submitting to and upholding the authority of a few thousand
priests, who are really no better than incarnate devils. Whether the
Catholic system be an error or not, it must have fallen to pieces a
hundred times over, if its chief ruler and his subordinates were mere
tricksters, playing upon the credulity of a fanatical and besotted
world. By this same test, then, its miraculous histories must be judged,
like the general characters of its supporters. They who propagate these
stories believe them to be true. They do not, of course, assert that
_every_ supernatural story is what it professes to be. They may even
admit that many are the mere creations of well-meaning but ill-informed
report. Nor is every Catholic priest, monk, or layman to be accounted a
sincere and honest man. There are betrayers of their Lord, from Judas
Iscariot to the last wretched apostates, who remain for years in the
Church, deceiving others without deceiving themselves. But on the whole,
and viewed as a body, the Catholic Church is as honest and truthful,
when she asserts that many wonderful miracles are incessantly taking
place within her, as the most scrupulous of moralists can desire.

"But she is herself deceived," exclaims the more candid separatist
or sceptic, taking up the argument declined by his scoffing brother.
Catholics, it is supposed, are under the dominion of so abject a
superstition, that the moment the subject of their religion is
introduced, they cease to exert their ordinary common sense and powers
of criticism, and believe any thing and every thing that seems to be
marvellous. Granting them to be sincere, the charitable Protestant is
of opinion that they are intellectually incapable of testing the
pretensions of these wonders to be real and true miracles. If, in plain
words, Catholics are not knaves, they _must be_ fools. Now, let me ask
any candid person who thus accounts for our belief in modern miracles,
to furnish me with an intelligible answer on two points. First, let him
explain how it comes to pass that an innumerable multitude of persons,
many of them distinguished for the highest intellectual powers, and
proving by their lives and their deaths that they are ready to make
every sacrifice for the sake of religion, should suffer themselves to be
imposed upon in so momentous a subject, should willingly accept as true
a series of absurd fabrications, whose falsehood they might detect by
the exercise of any ordinary acuteness, and should risk their reputation
with the world by professing to believe these fictions. If we _are_
sincere in our faith, it is impossible to suppose us so willing to be
imposed upon. The hollowness of these supernatural pretensions must
have betrayed itself to _some_ amongst us. The bubble must have burst
_somewhere_. If not at Rome, where Protestants imagine Catholic
intellect to be at its lowest ebb, at least in England, or France,
or Belgium, or Germany, _some_ of our great Catholic philosophers,
historians, politicians, and men of science, must have unveiled the
truth. [Footnote: It is a remarkable fact, that the most celebrated
work on the supernatural gifts accorded by God to Christians, is the
production of one of the greatest intellects, and by far the most
influential political writer, that modern Europe has seen. Görres, the
author of the _Christliche Mystik_, was the Wellington of literature
during the last European war. The influence which he exercised over
the whole German mind by his _Rhenish Mercury_ is altogether without
parallel in the history of journalism. It was, indeed, regarded as
so formidable by Napoleon himself, that he styled Görres a _fourth
continental power_. Yet this first of publicists devoted his whole life
to the investigation of the wonders of Catholic mysticism, and believed
with undoubting conviction in their reality.]

And, secondly, I desire to be told _who_ are the deceivers. If our
numerous miracles are all errors, there must be gross deception in a
host of instances _somewhere_. _Where_ is it, then? I ask; which are the
dupes, and which the rogues? Do the clergy cheat the laity? Or do the
laity (who have quite as much to do with these miracles) cheat the
clergy? Do the Jesuits entrap the Pope? Or does the Pope mystify the
Jesuits? When missionaries shed their blood in hundreds in heathen
lands, are we to believe that _they_ are the fabricators of the
wonderful tales which they have been in the habit of sending home to
Christendom? Or did they leave Europe with the intention of becoming
martyrs, without troubling themselves to ascertain whether they were
not the dupes of delusions already surrounding them in a Christian land?
Again I say, if Catholic miracles are all false, there must be boundless
trickery _somewhere_, and I demand to know _where_ it is. In an English
court of justice a charge of conspiracy cannot be entertained unless
the accuser can point out certain parties on whom to fasten his charge.
Judge and jury would laugh at a plaintiff who came into court crying out
that he was victimised by some invisible, indescribable, and unknown,
but yet very numerous band of foes. So it is with this popular theory
about Catholic miracles. We are told that we are deceived. We are all
cheated together. The bishops are victims; the priests are victims;
monks and nuns are victims; the laity are victims; the old Catholics in
England are victims; the converts are victims; the best of us all are
victims; the most learned, the most pious, the most able, the most
self-denying,--all _these_ are dupes. If there are deceivers, they are
the few, the ignorant, the cunning, and the vile. The Roman Church, as a
Church, is supposed to be under the dominion of a band of conspirators,
who have blinded her eyes without her having found it out, and who
are now using her for their own godless purposes. Does not such
a supposition confute itself? Is it worth admitting, even as an
hypothesis? Would such a statement be endured for a moment by a judge
and twelve men in a jury-box? I say, therefore, before moving a step to
overthrow the Protestant accusation, "Make a distinct and intelligible
charge of certain definite crimes against certain definite individuals.
When that is done, the proof still remains with you. Show us both who
are the deceivers, and how they deceive us; or admit that there is
no credulity so open-mouthed as that of Protestants when they attack
Catholics; no superstition so base as that which worships this visible
order of nature as an eternal rule which not even God Himself can ever
interrupt."

The fact is, however, that no Protestant ever attempts any thing like a
profound investigation of the Catholic miracles. A calm, critical, and
judicial inquiry into the worth of the Roman process of canonisation has
never been risked. Here is an enormous catalogue of incidents, whose
supernatural character is vouched for by the decrees of a long series
of Popes, professedly based upon the most prolonged and anxious legal
examination. For centuries a tribunal has been declaring that one series
of miracles after another has come before it; that it has weighed them
all with the utmost care; that it has heard every thing that could be
urged against them; that it has rejected, as not proved, a very large
number; and that, after the most searching inquiry, it _has_ found such
and such supernatural incidents to be established by every law of
human evidence. [Footnote: For the steps followed in the processes of
canonisation, see Faber's _Essay on Beatification, Canonisation, and
the Processes of the Congregation of Rites_.] No man can look at the
processes of the canonisation of Catholic Saints without admitting that
very few of those secular events which we unhesitatingly believe are
supported by so overwhelming a weight of proof. Men's fortunes and lives
are incessantly taken away by law at our very doors on lower degrees of
evidence, and no one exclaims. And yet the decisions of this Catholic
tribunal are set aside without hesitation. People think them not even
worthy of listening to. The whole affair they count a childish trifling;
and with a shrug or a sneer they pass it by.

And it is the same with those miracles which have not been brought
before any such high tribunal, but which rest on undeniable private
evidence. Those who are not Catholics put them aside simply as
incredible. They assume that they cannot be true, and therefore that
they are not true. Press them in argument, and they will shirk your most
stringent proofs. You can make no impression upon their _wills_. They
will believe any thing but that God has interrupted the course of nature
in favour of any one but themselves. In short, if we wish to see
human reason in its most irrational mood, we have but to enter into
conversation with a Protestant who asserts and thinks that he believes
the Bible miracles to be true, and urge upon him the proofs of such
modern miracles as are recorded of St. Frances of Rome. You will
perceive first, that though he has made up his mind on the subject with
unhesitating dogmatism, he has never investigated its bearings or facts,
even in outline. Nevertheless, to your surprise, you will find him
perfectly ready to start some random theory, at a moment's notice,
unconscious of the momentous, the awful nature of the matter he is
handling. You see, perhaps, that his mind is powerfully influenced
by the singular character of many Catholic miracles. He thinks them
strange, unnecessary, unaccountable, absurd, disgusting, degrading. His
nervous sensibilities are shocked by an account of the fearful pangs
accompanying the _stigmata_. In the phenomena of ecstasy he can see
nothing more than the ravings of delirium, or (if he believes in
mesmerism) than the tales of a clairvoyante, and the rigidity of
catalepsy. His physical frame, accustomed to its routine of breakfast,
luncheon, and dinner, its sofas and easy-chairs, and its luxurious bed,
shudders at the thought of the self-inflicted penances of the Saints,
and at the idea of God's bestowing a miraculous power of enduring such
horrors. He would be as much surprised to be told that Smithfield was
literally the abode of incarnate demons, as to hear that demons have
often assumed the shapes of beasts and monsters in their conflicts with
the elect. The notion that an angel might visibly appear to a pious
traveller on the Great Western or Birmingham railroad, and protect him
from death in a frightful collision of trains, makes him open his eyes
and contemplate you as scarcely sane to hint at such a thing. That "the
Virgin," as he calls her, should come down from heaven and enter a
church or a room, and hold a conversation with living men, women, or
children in the nineteenth century, and give them a trumpery medal, or
tell them to wear a piece of cloth round their neck, or cure them of
some disease, he regards about as likely and rational as that the
stories in the _Arabian Nights_ and the _Fairy Tales_ should turn out to
be true histories. Be as serious as you please, he simply laughs in his
sleeve, thinking to himself, "Well, who would have believed that the
intellect of an educated Englishman should submit itself to such
drivelling as this?"

Perceiving that this is the state of his mind, you open the Bible, which
lies, handsomely bound, upon his table, and running rapidly through
the four Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles, point out to him a long
series of supernatural events there recorded; and show him that in
their nature they are precisely the same as those modern miracles which
provoke his disgust or contempt. You remind him, first of all, that our
Lord Jesus Christ is the Head of the Church, and that all His people
are made _like Him_, in His life and His sufferings, as well as in His
glory; and then proceed to your summary. He accounts the penances of
Saints needless and impossible; you remind him of our blessed Lord's
fast of forty days and forty nights. He is horror-struck at the details
of the sufferings of those in whom the Passion of Christ has been
visibly renewed; you beg him to attempt to realise the bloody sweat
in the Garden of Olives. He speaks of mesmerism and clairvoyance, and
derides the thought of a Saint's being illuminated with radiant light,
or exhaling a fragrant odour; you ask him how he explains away the
transfiguration of Jesus. He says that it is physically impossible that
a man's body can be (as he expresses it) in two places at once; you
desire him to say by what law of nature our Lord entered the room where
the disciples were when the doors were shut; how St. Peter was delivered
from chains and imprisonment by the angel; how St. Paul was rapt into
the third heaven, _whether in the body or out of the body, he could not
tell_. He says that when a Saint has thought himself attacked by devils
in hideous shapes, his brain has been diseased; you entreat him to
beware of throwing a doubt on the temptation of Jesus Christ by Satan in
the wilderness. He pities you for believing that the Mother of God has
appeared for such needless purposes to excited devotees; you ask him why
the Son of God appeared long after His death and ascension to St. Paul,
and told him what he might have learnt in a natural way from the other
Apostles. He calls your miraculous relics childish trumpery; you ask
whether the handkerchiefs and aprons which cured the sick, after having
touched St. Paul's body, were trumpery also; and whether St. Luke is
countenancing superstition when he relates how the people crowded near
St. Peter to be healed by his very shadow passing over them. Then, as he
feels the overwhelming force of your rebukes, he insinuates that there
is something divine, something evidently touching, pure, and strict in
morality in the Bible narratives, which is wanting in these lives of
Catholic Saints; and you refer him to such biographies as that of St.
Frances of Rome, and compelling him to read the narratives of her
revelations, ask him if all that she says when in a state of ecstasy
does not wear, even in his judgment, the impress of a Divine origin, and
seem to be dictated by the God of all purity, humility, and love.

At length your opponent, after brief pondering, changes his ground, and
asserts that you are yourself deceived; that the real defect in Catholic
miraculous stories is the want of evidence. He tells you that he would
believe, if he could; but that you have not proved your point. You next
call his attention to the distinct promise made by our blessed Lord to
the Church, that miracles should always continue with her; and ask him
how, on his theory, he accounts for the non-fulfilment of this promise.
You desire him to lay his finger on the epoch when its fulfilment
ceased; and not only to assert that it then ceased, but to prove his
assertion. He says nothing, for he has nothing to say which he can even
attempt to prove; and you proceed to furnish a few examples of miracles,
from patristic, mediæval, or modern times, or perhaps of the present
day, which are supported by at least as cogent an amount of evidence
as the historical proof of the Scripture miracles. You insist upon his
_disproving_ these. He cannot. He resorts to some new hypothesis. He
says that there is deception _somewhere_, though he cannot tell where;
and probably by this time is showing symptoms of a wish to end the
discussion. You urge him again, and press him to give an intelligible
reason for supposing that there _must_ be deception any where. He thinks
a while; and when at length you are looking for a rational conclusion,
he starts backwards to his old assumption that the Catholic miracles
_cannot_ be true. He begs the whole question, and says that they are in
favour of Catholicism, and that Catholicism is false. You too recur to
your old reference to the Bible, and so on. And thus you run again the
same round; and you may run it a thousand times over, till you perceive
that there is but one reason why your opponent is not convinced; which
is, that he _will not_ be convinced. And thus it was in the days when
those very miracles were wrought which Protestants profess to believe.
The Jews _would not_ believe our Lord's words and doctrines. He then
bade them believe Him because of His miracles; and they instantly
imputed them to the power of the devil. He showed them that this theory
was impossible; but, so far from being convinced and converted, they
went their ways, and plotted His death. Now, our controversialists
cannot, or do not wish, to take away our lives; but when not a word is
left them in the way of argument, they go their ways, and protest
to their fellows, that we are obstinate, unfair, superstitious,
and insolent; and too often encourage one another in the bitterest
persecution of those who are convinced by our reasonings, and submit to
the Church.


I now turn to the objections which are at times felt by Catholics
themselves to the publication of Saints' Lives, abounding in
supernatural incidents. Such persons are, indeed, not numerous; and
their number is rapidly diminishing. Still it can scarcely be doubted
that conscientious Catholics _are_ to be found who take the view I am
speaking of, from ideas which, though erroneous (as I believe), are yet
so truly founded in sincerity, as to demand respect and explanation from
those who differ from them.

The objections they raise are twofold. First, they allege that such
books scandalise Protestants and drive them from the Church; and
secondly, they do not see _how_ incidents, wholly unlike our ordinary
daily experience, _can_ practically serve us in our private Christian
lives.

To the idea that non-Catholics are thus needlessly prejudiced against
the faith, I reply, that this assertion is wholly unproved. That they
do, as a matter of fact, laugh and attack such biographies, I fully
admit; but they laugh at them on grounds which we cannot admit without
giving up the Christian revelation itself. They scoff at them, not
because they think them not supported by credible testimony, but because
they are not what they call dignified, refined, and just such as they
should have supposed all things to be that come from God. That such a
temper of mind is indicative of pure Deism, it needs no words to prove.
A man who derides a miraculous event merely as _trifling_, thereby
asserts that he himself is the judge of what is great and what is little
in the sight of God. He lays down laws for the guidance of the Almighty.
He is adopting the identical reasoning of professed infidels, who on
this very ground reject Christianity itself. And it is obvious that
nothing can be more perilous than the encouragement of so fatal a
principle of judgment. Once let the acute and logical Protestant
perceive that you move one step backwards in deference to this
objection, and he will press you with fresh consequences of the very
same admission until he lands you in undisguised scepticism, if not in
the blackest Atheism.

Can any single instance, in fact, be named in which a mind that was
apparently determined to seek salvation at all costs, has been actually
deterred from entering the Catholic Church by meeting with these
extraordinary histories? Are they not a butt for determined and
obstinate Protestants, and for such Protestants only? Ask any convert
whether, on looking back, he can say that the knowledge of these
peculiarities in Catholic hagiology ever practically held him back for
four-and-twenty hours in his journey towards the Church. That the world
is angry, and that the world vents its spleen and its contempt in bitter
jests, is true enough; but _pious souls are not made to sin, or kept
away from their Saviour_, by any thing of the kind. And that the rage
and mocking of man afford not the slightest reason for inducing the
Church to turn out of her natural path, I shall not dishonour my readers
by attempting to prove to them.

That it _is_ her natural course to make these histories public, for
the practical edification of her children, is clear from one fact
alone,--they are precisely parallel to the life of our blessed Lord, as
narrated in the four Gospels. The whole question resolves itself into
this: If such lives as that of St. Frances, and many others, recently
published in England, are not edifying to the ordinary Christian, then
the life of Jesus Christ is not edifying. The Gospels, as well as the
Acts of the Apostles and the Epistles, must be rigorously expurgated and
cut down to the type of the common domestic life of the present day.
Nothing can be further removed from the circumstances of most men than
the records of our Lord's miracles and supernatural acts in general.
What has the temptation, the transfiguration, the driving the devils
into the swine, the turning the water into wine at what we should now
call a "wedding-breakfast," and, in fact, almost every _act_ in our
blessed Lord's life, in common with our amusement, our business, our
society, our whole experience? Yet, to say that a devout soul can
meditate on these transcendently mysterious events, and not derive from
them practical instruction to enable her to fulfil her little trivial
earthly duties with Christian perfection, is nothing short of blasphemy.
The Son of God incarnate, all glorious, all awful, all unfathomable as
He was even in the days of His sojourning on earth, was yet our example,
our model, our embodied series of precepts. The eye of the simplest
regenerate child cannot be turned for an instant upon His Divine glories
and ineffable sufferings without drawing light therefrom to guide it
even in its play with its fellows, or in the most trivial of the duties
towards its parents and teachers.

And such, I am convinced, is the experience of Catholics of all ranks,
of every age and every degree of intellectual cultivation, who study
religiously the miraculous lives of the Saints, believing them to be, on
the whole, correct histories. It is not needful that they should regard
them to be literally true in all their details, as the Bible is true. We
have but to regard them as we regard other authentic human narratives,
with the addition of that veneration and confidence which is due to such
portions of them as have been formally sanctioned by the Church, to
derive from them unceasing spiritual comfort and instruction. Doubtless,
if we are so ignorant as to fancy that all Saints' histories are to
be alike in details, and that therefore we ought to wish that the
circumstances of our lives were the same as theirs, we shall be doing
ourselves great mischief. But let us study them with a true knowledge of
the mere elements of the Christian faith, and they will be to us what
St. Paul desires his disciples to seek for in _his_ life, namely, a
continuation, as it were, of the life of Jesus Christ, carried on
through all the successive ages of His Church on earth. They will
impress upon our minds with an intensity peculiarly their own, the
reality of the invisible world and the ensnaring tendencies of every
thing that we possess. Weak and ignorant as is the imaginative and
sensitive portion of our nature, it needs every possible help that it
can find to counteract the paralysing effects of the worldliness of the
world, of the lukewarmness of Christians, and of the enthralling
nature of the universe of sight and sense. Our courage is wonderfully
strengthened, and our love for things invisible is inflamed, by every
thing that forces us, as it were, to _see_ that this visible creation
_is not_ the only thing that is real, mighty, and present. The general
precepts and the dogmatic statements of religion acquire a singular
and living force when we perceive them carried out and realised in the
actual affairs of life in a degree to which our personal experience is a
stranger. Influenced as human nature is by example, these unpretending
narratives, whose whole strength lies in the facts which they record,
and not in the art of the biographer, undeniably _strike_ the mind with
an almost supernatural force. They enchain the attention; they compel us
to say, Are these things true? Are these things possible? Is religion,
after all, so terribly near to us? Are this life and this world so
literally vain and worthless, so absolutely nothing worth? Are suffering
and awful bodily anguish blessings to be _really_ coveted? Are the
maxims which I daily hear around me so hopelessly bad and accursed? Are
angels and devils so near, so very near, to us all? Is purgatory so
terrible and so inevitable to all but the perfect, that these fearful
visions of its pains are in substance what I myself shall endure? And
if I fall from grace and die in sin before one of the innumerable
temptations that hourly beset me, is it true that nothing less than
an eternity of such torments, the very reading of which even thus
represented makes me shudder with horror, will be my _inevitable_
lot? And is the bliss of the Saints and the joy of loving God so
inexpressibly sweet to any souls here on earth? Is it possible that any
one should escape from a state of coldness, deadness, worldliness, and
unwilling performance of his religious duties, and positively come to
lose all taste for bodily and mere intellectual pleasures through the
absorbing of his whole being into the love of Jesus and of Mary, and
through a burning thirst for the beatific vision of the Eternal Trinity?

And who will venture to say that it is not good _for us all_ to have
such thoughts frequently pressed upon our attention? If there is any
meaning in the command that we are to aim at being perfect, whatever be
the state of life _in which_ we are called to seek perfection, surely
it is no ordinary advantage thus to have the essentially supernatural
character of our religious life forced again and again upon our
attention. For, be it never forgotten, this very _supernaturalness_ is
one of its essential features. There are innumerable varieties in our
vocations. The earthly circumstances in which we are to serve God are
almost innumerable in their variety; but the supernatural element
appertains to them all alike. Our actual relationship to the awful and
glorious realities of the unseen world is precisely the same in kind as
that of the most miraculously endowed Saints. The only difference is
this, that in their case that relationship was perceived and visibly
manifested in a peculiar mode, to which we are strangers. Heaven,
purgatory, and hell are as near to us as if we beheld the visions of St.
Frances. The cross is as literally our portion, in its essential nature,
as if the five sacred wounds were renewed physically in our agonising
frame. Our angel-guardian is as incessantly by our side, as if our eyes
were opened to behold his effulgent radiance. Satan strikes the same
blows at our souls, whether he shows himself to our sight or not. The
relics of Saints, which we carefully look at or criticise, _may be_
at any moment the vehicles of the same miraculous powers as the
handkerchiefs from the body of St. Paul. Who would say to a blind man,
"Forget the tangible realities of this life, because you cannot see
them"? Who would not rather say, "Bear constantly in mind what is the
experience of those who _can_ see, that you may practically remember
their ceaseless nearness to you"? And just such is the experience of the
Saints, in whose histories faith has partly merged into sight, and the
veil which blinds our eyes has been partially and at certain seasons
withdrawn. It tells us, as few things else can tell, of the _reality_ of
the objects of our faith.

I add a word or two on the question, how far the actual conduct of the
extraordinary persons whose lives are here related is to serve as
a model for practical imitation by ordinary Christians. To the
well-instructed Catholic, it would be an impertinence in me to suggest
that they are not in every detail thus to be followed. It is the duty
of a Christian to follow the rules for daily life which it has pleased
Almighty God to lay down in the Gospel, and not to imagine that those
exceptional cases of conduct to which He has supernaturally prompted
certain individuals are to be imitated by those who have only the
ordinary graces of the Holy Spirit.

The general reader, however, may be reminded that Catholics believe,
that as the Creator of the universe occasionally interrupts the order of
the laws of nature, so He at times interrupts the relative order of the
laws of duty; not, of course, the essential laws of morality, but those
positive laws which are obligatory simply because they are enacted by
competent authority. No person, indeed, can be justified in acting on
such an idea in his own case, unless guided by supernatural light,
beyond the usual spiritual illumination given to all Christians. This
supernatural light is rarely vouchsafed, and it is accordingly in the
highest degree presumptuous in any person to overstep the ordinary
routine of distinctly ordered duty, under the idea that he is called by
God to break the rules given for the guidance of mankind in general. In
all such supposed cases, the Catholic Church has the proper tests to
apply, by which the soul can learn whether she is led by a Divine
afflatus, or betrayed by her own disordered imagination, or the deceits
of an invisible tempter.

J.M.C.

[Illustration] CONTENTS.

I.

ST. FRANCES OF ROME.

CHAPTER I.

General character of the Saint's life--Her childhood and early piety

CHAPTER II.

Francesca's early inclination for the cloister--By her father's desire
she marries Lorenzo Ponziano--Her married life--Her illness and
miraculous cure

CHAPTER III.

Francesca proceeds in her mortifications and works of charity --Her
supernatural temptations and consolations

CHAPTER IV.

The birth of Franceseca's first child--Her care in his education--She
undertakes the management of her father-in-law's household--A famine
and pestilence in Rome--Francesca's labours for the sick and poor--The
miracles wrought in her behalf

CHAPTER V.

The birth of Francesca's second son--His supernatural gifts --The
birth of her daughter--Satanic attacks upon Francesca --Troubles of
Rome--Francesca's husband is severely wounded--Her eldest son, when
given up as a hostage to the Neapolitans, is miraculously restored to
her


CHAPTER VI.

Sufferings of Rome from the troops of Ladislas--Death of Francesca's son
Evangelista--The famine and plague in Rome--Francesca's labours for the
starving and sick--Her miracles


CHAPTER VII.

Evangelista appears to his mother--An archangel is assigned to her as a
visible guardian throughout her life


CHAPTER VIII.

Francesca's illness and recovery--Her vision of hell--Restoration of
tranquillity in Rome--Return of Francesca's husband--Her power in
converting sinners


CHAPTER IX.

Fresh supernatural events in Francesca's history--Her obedience to her
husband and to her confessor rewarded by two miracles--Marriage of her
son, and ill conduct of his wife--Her conversion through Francesca's
prayers--Fresh miracles worked by Francesca


CHAPTER X.

Francesca lays the foundation of her future congregation-- Her
pilgrimage to Assisi


CHAPTER XI.

Death of Francesca's friend and director, Don Antonio-- Troubles in
Rome and Italy foretold by Francesca--Death of Vannozza, Francesca's
sister-in-law--Foundation of the Congregation of Oblates of Tor di
Specchi


CHAPTER XII.

Progress and trials of the young community--It is confirmed by the
Pope--Troubles in Rome and the Church terminated through Francesca's
intercession and the council of Florence


CHAPTER XIII.

Death of Francesca's husband--She goes to reside with the community of
Tor di Specchi--Her life as superioress


CHAPTER XIV.

Francesca's last illness and death


CHAPTER XV.

Francesca's funeral, and her subsequent canonization


II. BLESSED LUCY OF NARNI


III. DOMINICA OF PARADISO


IV. ANNE DE MONTMORENCY, THE SOLITARY OF THE PYRENEES


(Illustration) ST. FRANCES OF ROME




CHAPTER I.

GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE SAINT'S LIFE--HER CHILDHOOD AND EARLY PIETY.

(Illustration)

There have been saints whose histories strike us as particularly
beautiful, not only as possessing the beauty which always belongs
to sanctity, whether exhibited in an aged servant of God, who for
threescore years and more has borne the heat and burden of the day, or
in the youth who has offered up the morning of his life to His Maker,
and yielded it into His hands before twenty summers have passed over
his head; whether in a warrior king like St. Louis, or a beggar like
Benedict Labré, or a royal lady like St. Elizabeth of Hungary; but also
as uniting--in the circumstances of their lives, in the places they
inhabited, and the epochs when they appeared in the world, much that
is in itself poetical and interesting, and calculated to attract the
attention of the historian and the man of letters, as well as of the
theologian and the devout. In this class of saints may well be included
Francesca Romana, the foundress of the religious order of the Oblates
of Tor di Specchi. She was the model of young girls, the example of a
devout matron, and finally a widow, according to the very pattern drawn
by St. Paul; she was beautiful, courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly
born, and delicately brought up: Rome was the place of her birth, and
the scene of her labours; her home was in the centre of the great
city, in the heart of the Trastevere; her life was full of trials
and hair-breadth escapes, and strange reverses; her hidden life was
marvellous in the extreme: visions of terror and of beauty followed her
all her days; favours such as were never granted to any other saint were
vouchsafed to her; the world of spirits was continually thrown open to
her sight; and yet, in her daily conduct, her character and her ways,
minute details of which have reached us, there is a simplicity as well
as a deep humility, awful in one so highly gifted, touching in one so
highly favoured.

Troubled and wild were the times she lived in; perhaps if one had to
point out a period in which a Catholic Christian would rather not have
had his lot cast,--one in which there was most to try his faith and
wound his feelings, he would name the end of the fourteenth century, and
the beginning of the fifteenth. War was raging all over Europe; Italy
was torn by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the Guelphs and
the Ghibellines. So savage was the spirit with which their conflicts
were carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to overspread
that fair land, and the Church itself was afflicted not only by the
outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality, though for a while
they may appear to cripple its action, but by trials of a far deeper and
more painful nature. Heresy had torn from her arms a great number of her
children, and repeated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance
and even in intention, remained faithful to the Holy See. The successors
of St. Peter had removed the seat of their residence to Avignon, and the
Eternal City presented the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which
daily and hourly conflicts were occurring. The Colonnas, the Orsinis,
the Savellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged the
streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in the flower of
their age; strangers were also continually invading the heritage of the
Church, and desecrated Rome with massacres and outrages scarcely less
deplorable than those of the Huns and the Vandals. In the capital of the
Christian world, ruins of recent date lay side by side with the relics
of past ages; the churches were sacked, burned, and destroyed; the
solitary and indestructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully
erect amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom; and the eyes of the
people of Rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary power,
which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity and peace, and whose
removal the signal of war and of misery.

It was at that time, during the Pontificate of Urban VI., in the year
1384, that Francesca was born at Rome; that "she rose as a star in a
dark night," according to the expression of the most ancient of her
biographers. Her father's name was Paul Bussa; her mother's Jacobella
de' Roffredeschi; they were both of noble and even illustrious descent,
and closely allied to the Orsinis, the Savellis, and the Mellinis. On
the day of her birth she was carried to the church of Santa Agnese, in
the Piazza Navona, and there baptised. Little could the worshippers who
may have been praying there that day for a blessing on their bereaved
and distracted city, have guessed in what form that blessing was
bestowed, and that that little babe, a few hours old, was to prove a
most powerful instrument in the hands of God for the extinction of
schism, the revival of piety, and the return of peace.

From her infancy, Francesca was not like other children. Her mother,
when she held her in her arms or hushed her to sleep on her knee, had
always an involuntary feeling of reverence for her little daughter; it
was as if an angel of God, not an earthly child, had been lent her; a
heavenly expression shone in her eyes, and the calm serenity of her
infant features struck all who approached her with admiration. Francesca
learned to read at the same time that she began to speak; the first
words she was taught to utter were the sacred names of Jesus and Mary;
at her mother's knee she lisped the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin,
and during the whole course of her life she never omitted that practice.

At two or three years old she had the sense and intelligence of a
grown-up person; an extraordinary piety revealed itself in all her words
and actions. She never played like other children; but when left to
herself would often retire into silent corners of her father's palace,
and kneeling down, join her little hands in prayer; and lifting up her
infant heart to God, would read a devout book, or repeat hymns to the
Blessed Virgin, her own dear mother as she used to call her. Silence
appeared to be the delight of this young child--the deepest reserve and
modesty an instinct with her. At the age of six years the practices of
the saints were already familiar to her. She had left off eating
meat, eggs, or sweets of any description, and lived on plainly boiled
vegetables and bread. The necessity of eating at all seemed irksome to
her, and she never drank any thing but pure water. Then also had begun
her unwearied study of the lives of holy women, and especially of the
virgin martyrs who have shed their blood for the love of Jesus Christ.
The Sacrament of Confirmation, which she received at that time in the
church of Santa Agnese, the same in which she had been baptised, filled
her with ardour to show her love for her Lord by every imaginable means,
even those the most painful to the flesh.

Her mother was a very devout person, and in the habit of visiting every
day some of the churches, especially those where indulgences were to
be gained, and she also frequented the stations with affectionate
assiduity. For in that troubled epoch, as in the earliest times of the
Church, as now, as always, on certain days, in certain places, the
relics of apostles, of martyrs, and of confessors were exhibited to the
faithful, often on the very spot where they had finished their course
with joy, having kept their faith and won their crown. The devotion of
"the stations," as it is performed in Rome, is one of the most touching
links with the past that it is possible to conceive. To pass along the
street, so often trod by holy feet in former and in latter days, and
seek the church appointed for that day's station; to approach some
time-worn basilica, or ancient sanctuary, without the city walls may be,
and pausing on the threshold, give one look at the glorious works of
Almighty God in the natural world,--at the wide Campagna, that land-sea,
so beautiful in its broad expanse and its desolate grandeur, at the
purple hills with their golden lights and their deep-blue shadows, and
the arched sky telling so vividly the glory of its Maker; and then
slowly lifting the heavy curtain that stands between that vision of
earthly beauty, and the shrine where countless generations have come
to worship,--to tread under feet the green boughs, the sweet-smelling
leaves, the scattered flowers, that morning strewn upon the uneven,
time-trod, time-honoured pavement; bowing in adoration before the Lord
in His tabernacle, to thank Him for the wonders that He has worked in
His saints,--for the beauty of the world of grace, of which that of the
visible world is but the type and the shadow; and then move from one
shrine to the other, wherever the lights upon the altars point the way,
and invoke the assistance, the prayers of the saints whose relics are
there displayed;--all this is one of those rare enjoyments which at once
feed the soul and awake the imagination, and which the devout Christian
can find in no place but Rome.

It was these "stations" that Francesca's mother frequented, and took her
little daughter with her. Sometimes she went to some church in the heart
of the city; sometimes to some lonely shrine without the walls. Then,
as now, the beggars (so we find it mentioned later in the life of the
Saint) congregated at the doors, and clamoured for alms. Then, as now,
the lights burned upon the altars, and the sweet smell of fragrant
and crushed leaves perfumed the air. During sermons the little girl's
attention never wandered; and on her return home she was wont to repeat
what she had heard with unction and delight.

Her mother's favourite church was that of Santa Maria Nuova; in our day
more frequently called that of San Francesca Romana. It stands in the
Toro Romano, close to the ruins of the ancient Temple of Peace. It was
served at that time by the Benedictine monks of Mount Olivet; and to
one of them, Don Antonio di Monte Savello, Jacobella de' Roffredeschi
intrusted the spiritual direction of her daughter. He was a man of great
learning and piety, and continued her director for five and thirty
years. Every Wednesday the little maiden came to him for confession. She
consulted him about her occupations, her religious exercises, and
her studies, and exactly obeyed his most minute directions, even in
indifferent things. Often she tried for his permission to practise
greater austerities; and such was her fervour, and the plain indications
of God's designs upon her, that he occasionally allowed her to perform
penances which might have been considered in ordinary cases too severe
for her tender age. At other times he forbade them altogether; and she
submitted cheerfully to his commands, without a word of remonstrance or
complaint, and resumed them again at his desire, with the equanimity
of one who well knew that the spirit of perfect obedience is more
acceptable to God than any works of devotion.

  "A celestial brightness, a more eternal beauty,
  Shone on her face, and encircled her form, when after confession
  Homeward serenely she walked, with God's benediction upon
  her.
  When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite
  music." [Footnote: Longfellow: _Evangeline_.]
Francesca's daily life was as perfect as a child's could be. No untrue
words sullied her pure lips; no gross thought dwelt in her mind. She
seldom laughed, though a sweet smile was often on her lips. Up to the
age of eleven, her life was one long continual prayer. Every little
action was performed with a view to the glory of God. Her trifling
failings she deplored with anguish; every stain on the pure mirror of
her conscience was instantly washed away by tears. It was not long
before it pleased God to vouchsafe to her extraordinary graces. Her
early and almost intuitive acquaintance with the mysteries of religion
was wonderful. Every day she meditated on the Incarnation and the
Passion of Jesus Christ; and her devotion to the Blessed Virgin
increased in proportion to her love for our Lord. Her face flushed with
delight, and a seraphic expression beamed in her eyes, when she spoke
of the sufferings of Jesus, and the glories of Mary. From the little
oratory where she held secret communion with heaven, she went out into
the world with the most ardent desire to serve the poor, to console the
afflicted, to do good to all. The affection of her young heart found
vent in numerous works of charity; and Francesca's name, and Francesca's
sweet voice, and Francesca's fair face, were even then to many of the
sufferers of that dark epoch a sign of hope,--a pledge that God was
still amongst them as of yore, and His Spirit at work in the hearts of
men.



CHAPTER II.

FRANCESCA'S EARLY INCLINATION FOR THE CLOISTER--BY HER FATHER'S DESIRE
SHE MARRIES LORENZO PONZIANO--HER MARRIED LIFE--HER ILLNESS AND
MIRACULOUS CURE.


From the time that Francesca had understood the meaning of the words,
her greatest desire had been to enter a convent; but with that spirit of
humility and reserve which so particularly belonged to her, she had kept
her desire concealed in her heart, and had manifested it to none but
God and her director. Don Antonio encouraged her to persevere in this
silence, and to prove her own resolution by secretly adhering to the
rules, and practising the austerities of one of the strictest religious
orders. She gladly assented to this, and persevered in it for a
considerable time. Stronger and deeper every day grew her inclination to
forsake the world, and to hold communion with God alone in the solitude
of the cloister; with that God whose love had already driven from her
heart all care for comfort, for pleasure, and for self. But not so
smooth was to be her path through life; not much longer was she to sit
in silence at the feet of her Lord, with no other thought than to live
on the words, which fell from His lips.

Though she concealed as much as possible the peculiarities of her mode
of life, they could not altogether escape the notice of her parents; and
they soon questioned her on the subject. When she informed them of her
wish to embrace the religious life, her father chose to consider her
vocation as a childish fancy, and informed her in return that he had
already promised her in marriage to Lorenzo Ponziano, a young nobleman
of illustrious birth, and not less eminent for his virtues and for his
talents than from his fortune and position. He reckoned amongst his
ancestors St. Paulianus, pope and martyr; his mother was a Mellini; and
his eldest brother Paluzzo had married Vannuzza, a daughter of the
noble house of Santo Croce. Francesca's heart sank within her at this
announcement, and falling on her knees she implored her father to alter
his determination, and allow her to follow what she believed to be the
will of God in her regard. She went even so far as to protest that
nothing should induce her to consent to this marriage; torrents of tears
fell from her eyes as she poured forth her supplications and urged her
request. But it was all in vain that she wept and prayed. Paul Bussa
turned a deaf ear to her pleadings; declared that his word was pledged,
that nothing should ever persuade him to retract it; and he insisted
that, as a dutiful daughter, she should submit herself to his will.
Seeing him thus immovable, Francesca rose from her knees, withdrew
in silence from his presence, and retiring into her little oratory,
prostrated herself before the crucifix, and asked counsel of Him at
whose feet she wished to live and to die; and implored Him, if such was
His good pleasure, to exert His Almighty Power, and raise obstacles to
the projected marriage. Then, strengthened by prayer, she was inspired
to seek direction from him who was the organ of the divine will to her,
and hurrying to Santa Maria Nuova, she requested to see Don Antonio
Savello.

Kindly and gently the good priest spoke to his afflicted penitent. He
promised to consult the Lord for her in prayer, and suggested some
devotions to be used by herself for that purpose. Then, seeing her
countenance assume a calmer expression, he endeavoured to prepare her
mind for what he doubtless already knew was the will of God, and the
true, though in one so minded, the singular vocation of Francesca. "If
your parents persist in their resolution (he said), take it, my child,
as a sign that God expects of you this sacrifice. Offer up to Him in
that case your earnest desire for the religious life. He will accept the
will for the deed; and you will obtain at once the reward of that wish,
and the peculiar graces attached to the sacrament of marriage. God's
ways are not as our ways, Francesca. When St. Mary Magdalene had sent
for the Lord Jesus Christ to come and heal her brother, it was no doubt
a severe trial to her that He came not; that the long hours of the day
and of the night succeeded each other, and that He tarried on the way,
and sent no message or token of His love. But when her brother rose from
the dead, when the shroud fell from his limbs, and he stood before her
full of life and strength, she understood the mystery, and adored
the divine wisdom of that delay. God indeed asks of you your heart,
Francesca; but He also claims your whole self as an oblation, and
therefore your will that He may mould it into entire conformity with
His own. For works may be many and good, my daughter, and piety may be
fervent, and virtues eminent, and yet the smallest leaven of self-love
or self-will may ruin the whole. Why do you weep, Francesca? That God's
will is not accomplished, or that your own is thwarted? Nothing but sin
can mar the first, and in this your trial there is not the least shade
of sin. As to your own will, bend, break, annihilate it, my child, and
take courage. Have but one thought--the good pleasure, the sweet will
of God; submit yourself to His Providence. Lay down your wishes as an
oblation on His altar; give up that highest place which you had justly
coveted; take the lower one which He now appoints you; and if you cannot
be His spouse, be His loving and faithful servant."

Francesca went home, and awaited in silence her father's further
commands. She was very pale, for the struggle was a painful one. She
prayed night and day, watched and fasted. When Paul Bussa renewed his
injunctions, she gently gave her assent, begged him to forgive her past
resistance, and henceforward gave no outward signs of the suffering
within, all the greater that it came in the form of rejoicing, and that
others deemed that to be happiness which cost her so many secret tears.
The family of Ponziano were overjoyed at the marriage,--the bride was so
rich, so beautiful, and so virtuous; there was not a young man in Rome
who did not look with envy on Lorenzo, and wish himself in his stead.
There was no end to the banquets, the festivities, the merry-makings,
which took place on the occasion; and in the midst of these rejoicings
Francesca left her father's palace for that of the Ponziani. It stood in
the heart of the Trastevere, close to the Yellow River, though not quite
upon it, in the vicinity of the Ponte Rotto, in a street that runs
parallel with the Tiber. It is a well-known spot; and on the 9th of
March, the Festival of St. Francesca, the people of Rome and of the
neighbourhood flock to it in crowds. The modern building that has been
raised on the foundation of the old palace is the Casa dei Esercizii
Pii, for the young men of the city. There the repentant sinner who longs
to break the chain of sin, the youth beset by some strong temptation,
one who has heard the inward voice summoning him to higher paths of
virtue, another who is in doubt as to the particular line of life to
which he is called, may come, and leave behind them for three, or five,
or ten days, as it may be, the busy world, with all its distractions and
its agitations, and, free for the time being from temporal cares, the
wants of the body provided for, and the mind at rest, may commune with
God and their own souls. Here they listen daily, nay hourly, to the
instructions of devout priests, who, in the manner prescribed by St.
Ignatius, place before them in turn the most awful truths and the most
consoling mysteries of the Kingdom of God. Resolutions are thus taken,
conversions often effected, good purposes strengthened in a way which
often seems little short of miraculous. The means are marvellously
adapted to the end; and though many a wave may sweep over the soul,
when it again returns to the world, a mark has been stamped upon it not
easily effaced.

Over the Casa dei Esercizii Pii the sweet spirit of Francesca seems
still to preside. On the day of her festival its rooms are thrown open,
every memorial of the gentle saint is exhibited, lights burn on numerous
altars, flowers deck the passages, leaves are strewn in the chapel, on
the stairs, in the entrance-court; gay carpets, figured tapestry and
crimson silks hang over the door, and crowds of people go in and out,
and kneel before the relics or the pictures of the dear saint of Rome,
and greet on each altar, and linger in these chambers, like kinsfolk met
on a birthday to rejoice together. The well-dressed and the ragged, the
rich and the poor, without distinction, pay their homage to her sweet
memory whose living presence once adorned the spot which they visit. It
is a joyous and touching festival, one which awakens tender thoughts,
and brings the world of memory into close connection with that of hope.
The mind is forcibly carried back to the day when the young bride of
Lorenzo Ponziano entered these walls for the first time, in all the
sacred beauty of holiness and youth--

  "Pure as the virgin snow that dwells
  Upon the mountain's crest,
  Cold as the sheet of ice that lies
  Upon the lake's deep breast."

Pure from the least taint of worldly vanity, cold to all that belongs
to human passion; but with a heart burning with love to God, and
overflowing with charity to every creature of His.

She was received tenderly and joyfully by Lorenzo himself, by his father
Andrew, his mother Cecilia, and Vannozza, the wife of his elder brother.
Francesca smiled sweetly as she returned their caresses; but the noise,
and the gaiety, and the visiting, that attended a wedding in those
days weighed heavily on her spirits; and though she never complained,
Vannozza perceived that her little heart was oppressed with some secret
sorrow, and tenderly inquired into its cause. Francesca could not resist
the gentle appeal, and disclosed her grief to her kind sister. She told
her that the world had never given her pleasure, that her affections
were elsewhere set, that she longed to live for God alone, and felt
sad, in spite of all her efforts, at the tumult and dissipation, which
was now her portion. "If such are your feelings, my beloved little
sister," exclaimed Vannozza, "my sympathy may serve to console you; for
neither do I find any delight in the vanities of the world, but only in
prayer and meditation. Let us be friends, Francesca; I will help you to
lead the life you desire, and together we shall arrive at the end we
have in view."

These kind words filled Francesca's heart with joy; and from that day
forward there sprung up a friendship between these two young women,
which lasted for eight-and-thirty years, and was a source of the
greatest consolation to them through all the trials they had to
encounter, at the same time that it edified all those who beheld that
tender affection.

In her new home Francesca followed the same mode of life which she had
pursued in her father's house; but her zeal was tempered with so much
wisdom and prudence, that she offended no one, and contrived to win the
affection of all her relations. Her good sense, her sweetness of temper,
her earnest piety, charmed them all; and they were astonished that so
young a girl could at once assume the part and fulfil the duties of a
devoted wife and a noble matron. Anxious in every way to conform herself
to Lorenzo's wishes, she received the visits of the high-born ladies her
equals and companions, and returned them with punctuality. She submitted
to appear in public with all the state which belonged to her position,
and accepted and wore the costly dresses and the splendid jewels which
her husband lavished upon her; but under those gorgeous silks and rich
brocades a hair-shirt was concealed. Always ready to comply with any
observance which duty or propriety required, she at the same time
steadily abstained even from the innocent amusements in which others
indulged; and never danced or played at cards, or sat up late at night.
Her manner was so gentle and kind, that it inspired affection in all who
approached her; but there was also a profound and awful purity in her
aspect and in her demeanour, which effectually checked the utterance of
a free or licentious word in her presence. Faithful to her early habits
of piety, she continued every Wednesday her visits to Santa Maria Nuova;
and after confessing to Don Antonio, she went to communion with such
fervent devotion, that those who saw her at the altar absorbed in
adoration, foresaw that God would ere long bestow extraordinary graces
on her soul. Rising betimes in the morning, Francesca devoutly said her
prayers, made her meditation, and read attentively out of a spiritual
book. In the course of the day, whenever she had a moment's leisure
unclaimed by any of the duties of her state, she withdrew into a church
or into her own room, and gave herself up to prayer. Every Saturday she
had a conference with Fra Michele, a Dominican monk, the prior of San
Clemente, and an intimate friend of her father-in-law. He was a learned
theologian, as well as a man of great piety and virtue, and instructed
her with care in all the doctrines of religion.

At the same tune, so austere and devout a life in a young person of
twelve years old could not fail to attract the attention and draw down
the censures of the worldly. Many such began to laugh at Francesca, and
to turn her piety into ridicule. They intruded their advice on Lorenzo
Ponziano, and urged him to put a stop to what they termed his wife's
eccentricities. But happily for Francesca, he was not one of those men
who are easily influenced by the opinion of others. He formed his
own judgment, and pursued his own line of conduct undisturbed by the
comments and animadversions of his would-be advisers. His young wife was
much too precious to him, much too perfect in his sight, her whole life
bore too visibly the stamp of God's dealings with her, for him to dream
of interfering with the course she had taken. On the contrary, he looked
upon her with that affectionate veneration which the presence of true
sanctity always awakens in a noble and religious mind. His father and
mother were of the same way of thinking, and all but idolised the holy
child who had come amongst them as an angel of peace. They regarded
her as the blessing of their house, and the comfort of their old age.
Paluzzo, Lorenzo's brother, delighted in encouraging the intimacy that
had arisen between his young sister-in-law and his own wife Vannozza.
There was not a single member, friend, or servant, of that noble family,
that did not look with delight upon Francesca. She was the joy of every
heart, the sweet consoler of every sorrow, the link that bound them
all by the sacred cord of love. Day by day her influence--her tender,
noiseless, gentle influence--was felt, subduing, winning, drawing them
all to God.

The happiness which the family of Ponziano had enjoyed since Lorenzo's
marriage was interrupted by the sudden and dangerous illness of his
wife, which baffled all medical skill, and soon brought her to the verge
of the grave. The affliction of her husband and of his whole family was
extreme. Their pearl of great price seemed about to be taken from them.
No remedies afforded the slightest relief to her sufferings; she was
unable to rest, or to retain any nourishment; and every day her strength
declined. The consternation of her friends knew no bounds; her father
was inconsolable. He secretly reproached himself with the constraint he
had placed on her inclinations, and considered her illness as a Divine
chastisement. Francesca alone remained unmoved amidst the general
affliction. She placed her life in the hands of God, and waited the
event with perfect submission. Unable to speak, or even to move, the
sweet expression of her earnest eyes alone spoke her gratitude to those
who nursed her and wept over her sufferings. At other times they were
fixed on the Crucifix with an unutterable look of trust and love. Once
only she was disturbed, and indignation gave her strength to protest
against the guilty suggestions of some friends of the family, who,
according to the notions of that time, persisted in believing that a
spell had been cast upon her, and proposed to have recourse to some
persons in Rome who dealt, or pretended to deal, in magic arts.
Francesca declared herself ready to die, rather than countenance so
impious a proceeding. After all medical resources had been exhausted,
when despair had succeeded to hope, Almighty God restored her health for
a while; and the news of her recovery was hailed with rapture within and
without the palace.

Her sufferings, however, returned with double violence; she endured the
most excruciating pains; and was again considered to be at the point
of death. During a whole year she remained as it were on the brink of
eternity: her soul prepared to take its wing; continually sustained by
the Sacraments of the Church, her only remaining thought was to soothe
the anguish of her husband and parents. Once again, those persons who
had previously proposed to resort to magic arts for her cure, managed to
thrust into her room, on some pretence or other, a woman celebrated in
that line. Francesca, enlightened by a divine inspiration, instantly
detected the fraud; and raising herself in her bed, with a voice, the
strength of which astonished the bystanders, exclaimed, "Begone,
thou servant of Satan, nor ever venture to enter these walls again!"
Exhausted by the effort, she fell back faint and colourless; and for a
moment they feared that her spirit had passed away. But that very day
God was preparing a miracle in her behalf; and as she had refused to
hold any communication with the Evil One, He was about to send His young
servant a heavenly messenger, with health and healing on his wings. It
was the eve of the Festival of St. Alexis,--that noble Roman penitent,
who passed so many years at the threshold of his own palace, unpitied,
unrecognised by his own relations, who went in and out at the gate, and
stopped not to question the silent, lonely, patient beggar, who lay
there with his face hid in a poor cloak, finding peace in the midst of
bitterness.

The Ponziani had all withdrawn to rest for a few hours; the women
who attended on the dying Francesca had fallen asleep. She was lying
motionless on her couch of pain. Her sufferings had been sharp; they
were sharper than ever that night. She endured them in the strength of
the Cross, from which neither her eyes nor her thoughts wandered. The
whole house, and apparently the city also, was wrapt in slumber; for not
a sound marred the stillness of the hour,--that stillness so trying
to those who watch and suffer. Suddenly on the darkness of the silent
chamber a light broke, bright as the day. In the midst stood a radiant
figure, majestic in form and gracious in countenance. He wore a
pilgrim's robe; but it shone like burnished gold. Drawing near to
Francesca's bed, he said: "I am Alexis, and am sent from God to inquire
of thee if thou choosest to be healed?" Twice he repeated the words,
and then the dying one faintly murmured, "I have no choice but the good
pleasure of God. Be it done unto me according to His will. For my own
part, I would prefer to die, and for my soul to fly to Him at once; but
I accept all at His hands, be it life or be it death." "Life, then,
it is to be," replied St. Alexis; "for He chooses that thou shouldest
remain in the world to glorify His name." With these words he spread his
mantle over Francesca and disappeared, leaving her perfectly recovered.

Confounded at this extraordinary favour, more alive to the sense
of God's wonderful mercy than to her own sudden freedom from pain,
Francesca rose in haste, and prostrate on the floor, made a silent and
fervent thanksgiving; then slipping out of her room without awaking her
nurses, she hurried to the bedside of her friend and sister. Putting her
arm round her neck and her cheek next to her's, she exclaimed, "Vannozza
cara! Vannozza mia!" (My dear Vannozza, my own Vannozza.) And the
bewildered Vannozza suddenly awoke out of her sleep, and distrusting the
evidence of her senses, kept repeating, "Who calls me? Who are you? Am
I dreaming? It sounds like the voice of my Cecolella." [Footnote: The
Italian diminutive for Francesca.] "Yes, it is your Cecolella; it is
your little sister who is speaking to you." "My Francesca, whom I left
an hour ago at the point of death?" "Yes, the very same Francesca who
now holds you to her breast; you, you, my beloved companion, who day and
night have comforted and consoled me during my long illness, and who
must now help me to thank God for His wonderful mercy." Then sitting
upon her bed, with her hands clasped in her's, she related to her her
vision, and the instantaneous recovery that had followed it; and then,
as the light was beginning to break into the chamber, she added with
eagerness, "Now, now the day is come. Let us not delay a moment longer,
but hasten with me to Santa Maria Nuova, and then to the church of St.
Alexis. I must venerate his relics, and return him my thanks, before
others learn what God has done for me."

This pious purpose fulfilled, they returned home, where Francesca was
looked upon as one risen from the dead. The affection she inspired was
mingled with awe; every one considered her as the special object of the
Divine mercy, and venerated her accordingly. Not so joyfully had Lorenzo
received her on their bridal-day, as when she came to him now, restored
to his arms by the miraculous interposition of a merciful God.




CHAPTER III.

FRANCESCA PROCEEDS IN HER MORTIFICATIONS AND WORKS OF CHARITY--HER
SUPERNATURAL TEMPTATIONS AND CONSOLATIONS.

Not in vain had Francesca been brought so near to death, and so
wonderfully restored to perfect health. A favour such as she had
received could not fail of producing signal results in one who so
well corresponded with every degree of grace vouchsafed to her. This
last manifestation of God's mercy disposed her to meditate deeply and
earnestly on the designs of Providence in her regard. She seemed now
to discern, in a clear and overpowering manner, the nature of the
particular judgment which she had been about to undergo, the amount of
responsibility incurred by every grace conferred on her soul, the severe
account which would be demanded of every talent committed to her charge;
and at the sight she shuddered, as a man draws back affrighted at the
distinct appearance of a precipice which he has skirted in the night, or
at the waves dashing wildly on a beach on which he has been landed in
safety. Her meditations at that time assumed a very solemn character;
every moment that she could spare was spent in the neighbouring church
of St. Cecilia or in her own oratory, and employed in a minute review of
her past life, and in forming heroic resolutions for the future.

The government of the tongue is one of the most difficult and important
points in the spiritual life. From this time forward Francesca avoided
all unnecessary conversations, and became habitually silent. There was
no moroseness in her silence; it never interfered with the kindnesses or
the courtesies of life; but as in childhood she had been remarkable
for it, so in womanhood it distinguished her, and especially since her
illness and miraculous recovery. Vannozza inquired of her one day what
it was that made her so habitually silent, and she answered, "God
expects more of us than heretofore;" and then she proposed to her
a still stricter mode of life than they had yet adopted. Vannozza
willingly assented, and they agreed to give up all useless amusements,
fashionable drives, and diversions, and to devote to prayer and to good
works the hours thus withdrawn from the service of the world. They
resolved to observe with the most exact punctuality every law of God,
and every precept of the Church; to obey their husbands with the most
attentive and Christian-like submission; to be invariably docile to
their ghostly father, and submit to him their actions, their words, and
even their thoughts; and thus to secure themselves against the deceits
of the evil one. They then proceeded to arrange for themselves a place
of retreat, where they could withdraw to pray at any hour of the day or
of the night. It was not easy to accomplish this in a palace inhabited
by a numerous family and a large number of servants; but in a sort of
cave at one end of the garden, and in a little room that happened to be
unoccupied under the roof of the house, they established two oratories,
which they furnished with crucifixes, images of our Blessed Lady, and
pictures of saints, as well as with various other objects of devotion
and with instruments of penance. These two little cells became their
comfort and delight; whenever their domestic duties or their religious
observances out of doors left them at liberty, they were in the habit
of retiring into the garden oratory, and at night they frequently spent
whole hours in prayer in the upper chamber. The first dawn of day often
found them at their orisons. The hours that were not devoted to prayer
or to the duties of their state, they employed in works of charity.
Almost every day they went to the hospital of San Spirito, and nursed
the sick with the kindest attention; consoling them by their gentle
words and tender care, bestowing alms upon the most needy, and above
all, tending affectionately the most disgusting cases of disease
and infirmity. Throughout their whole lives they never omitted this
practice. To serve Christ in His afflicted brethren was a privilege they
never consented to forego.

Francesca was at this time very anxious to lay aside the insignia of
wealth and rank, and to dress as simply as the poor she so much loved;
but, always obedient, she would not attempt to do so without the
permission of her spiritual guide. Don Antonio Savello would not give
her leave to relinquish the splendid robes then worn by persons of her
rank; he feared it might annoy her husband, and that there might be
danger of ostentation in any thing that attracted public attention; but
he allowed both the sisters to wear a coarse woollen garment under
their magnificent dresses, and to practise in secret several other
austerities. Their fasts and abstinences became more rigid than ever;
but were carried on with so much simplicity, and such a total absence
of display, that the very persons who habitually took their meals in
company with them, scarcely remarked their mortifications, or else
attributed them to a peculiarity of taste or the observance of a
regimen. Disciplines and other bodily penances of a very severe nature
were by this time habitual to Francesca, and she persevered in them to
the end of her life. With whatever care they concealed all these things,
it was not possible that the city of Rome should remain ignorant of
their piety and their generosity to the poor. The common people looked
upon Francesca and Vannozza as two saints; and their example began to
tell beneficially upon the women of their own class. Several noble
ladies were inspired with the desire to walk in their steps, and to
imitate their virtues. But it was not likely that Satan should behold
unmoved the work of grace thus advancing in the hearts of these two
young servants of God, and through them on many others. He chafed at the
sight; and now began that long series of attacks, of struggles, and of
artifices, by which he endeavoured to mar the glorious progress of
these heroic souls. Almighty God seems to have granted to the prince of
darkness, in San Francesca's case, a permission in some respects similar
to that which He gave him with regard to His servant Job. He was allowed
to throw temptations in her way, to cause her strange sufferings, to
persecute her by fearful manifestations of his visible presence, to
haunt her under various shapes, some seductive in their appearance,
others repulsive and terrific in their nature; but he was not permitted
(as, thanks be to God, he never is permitted,) to deceive or to injure
His faithful servant, who for every trial of the sort obtained some
divine favour in compensation; who for every vision of diabolical
horror, was allowed a glimpse into the world of glory; and to whom at a
later period was appointed a heavenly guardian to defend her against the
violence of her infernal foe.

The first time that Satan presented himself in a visible form to
Francesca's sight, God gave her an earnest of His protection in the
strife about to be waged between her and the old serpent by miraculously
revealing to her the character of her visitor. It was under the aspect
of a venerable hermit, emaciated with fasts and watchings, that he
entered the Ponziano palace: his intention was, by some artful words, to
inspire Francesca with aversion and disgust for the solitary life, and
at the same time for that hidden life which she so zealously practised
in the midst of the world. He was shown into a large room, where the
assembled family were sitting and conversing together. No sooner had
Francesca set her eyes upon him, than she was supernaturally enlightened
as to his true character; she knew at once the dreadful enemy, thus
for the first time made manifest to her sight; and, suddenly changing
colour, she rose and left the room. Vannozza followed (alarmed at her
hasty departure), and found her in the oratory kneeling before the
Crucifix, and as pale as death. She inquired into the cause of her
emotion; but Frances simply desired her to return to the sitting-room,
and request Lorenzo to dismiss the hermit. As soon as he was departed,
she re-appeared amongst them as serene and calm as usual; and to no one
but to her confessor did she mention the circumstance. Yet it was a most
awful moment, that first initiation into the supernatural world, that
first contact with the powers of darkness, that opening of the visible
war between her and the great enemy. No wonder that she was habitually
silent; her soul must have lived in very close communion with the
invisible world, and the presence of God must have been realised in
an extraordinary decree by one whose spiritual discernment was so
miraculously keen.

A more ordinary snare was the tempter's next resource, and he chose as
his instrument a person of piety and virtue, but whose human fears and
affections were too strong for her faith. He suggested to Cecilia, the
mother-in-law of the two saints, who was most fondly attached to them,
and maternally solicitous about their healths, that the ascetic life
which they led must necessarily impair it; that amusements were
essential to young persons; and that the singularity of their conduct
reflected discredit on the family. Under this impression, she strove by
every means in her power to counteract their designs, to thwart them in
their devotional and charitable practices, and to induce them to give up
more of their time and of their attention to the world. She thus gave
them occasion to practise a very peculiar kind of patience, and to gain
the more merit in the eyes of God, in that they had daily to encounter a
sort of opposition particularly trying to young and ardent spirits. It
is related, that one day, when they had gently but steadily refused
to pay some visits which, far from being absolute duties, were only
pretexts for gossip and the most frivolous conversations, Francesca and
Vannozza had retired into the garden oratory; and after spending some
time in prayer, began conversing together on the life which the early
Fathers were wont to lead in the deserts, and of the happiness it must
be to live entirely devoted to the service of God, and to commune with
Him above, far from the distracting thoughts and cares of the world.
They went on picturing to themselves the manner in which they would
have divided their time and arranged their occupations under similar
circumstances, and together they made out a complete rule of life.

Absorbed in the subject, Vannozza exclaimed, with childlike simplicity,
"But what should we have to eat, sister?" and Francesca replied, "We
should search for fruits in the desert, dearest; and God would surely
not let us seek in vain." As she said these words they rose to return
home, and from a tree which grew out of a ruined wall on one side of
the garden there fell at her feet a quince of the largest size and most
shining colour, and another similar to it was lying in Vannozza's path.
The sisters looked at each other in silent astonishment; for the time of
the year was April, and nothing but a miracle could have brought these
apples to maturity at this unwonted season. The taste of the fruit was
as excellent as its colour was beautiful. They were divided amongst
the members of the family, who wondered at the marvels which seemed
continually to attend the steps of Francesca. She was profoundly
grateful for such favours, but probably marvelled less than others at
their occurrence. Her youth; the simplicity of her faith; her total
abstraction from worldly thoughts; her continual study and meditation
of the Holy Scriptures and of the lives of the Saints,--must have
necessarily familiarised her mind with such ideas. It could not seem
incredible to her, that the God who in less favoured times, and under
a severer dispensation, had so often suspended the laws of nature, in
order to support, to guide, and to instruct His people; that the Saviour
who had turned water into wine by a single word, and withered the
unprofitable fig-tree by a look,--should at all times display the same
power in favour of His children, in ways not a whit more marvellous or
mysterious.

Cecilia made one more effort to check what she considered exaggeration
in the mode of life of her daughters-in-law. She urged their husbands to
interfere, and by their authority to oblige them to mix more with the
world. But Paluzzo and Lorenzo had too deep an esteem for their wives,
and too great a sense of the advantages they derived from their singular
virtues, to be persuaded into putting a restraint on their actions.
Since they had come into the family, and united their pious efforts for
their own and others' spiritual improvement, disputes and quarrels had
given way to the most edifying concord. The servants, moved by their
example, performed their duties with exemplary zeal, frequented the
churches and the sacraments, and abstained from profane or idle words.
They accordingly entreated their mother to give up her fruitless
attempts, and allow the two young women liberty to follow the rule of
life they had adopted; and thus put an end to the kindly meant but
trying persecution they had gone through.

About this time the devil, thwarted in his designs, but always on
the watch, was permitted to vent his anger against Francesca and her
sister-in-law in a way to which he often had recourse, and which, while
it seemed to display a momentary power over their bodies, only proved
in the end that a stronger one than he was always at hand to defeat his
malice, and snatch from him his prize. Francesca and Vannozza had gone
to St. Peter's on an intensely hot day in July, in the year 1399.
Absorbed in prayer, they had hardly noticed the lapse of time, and
twelve o'clock had struck when they set out on their way home. In order
to avoid observation, and the marks of veneration which the people
lavished upon them as soon as they set eyes on the two saints (as they
always called them), they chose the most unfrequented streets they could
find. The heat grew intolerable. The sultry air seemed on fire, and not
a breath stirred it. Exhausted with fatigue, their mouths parched with
thirst, they reached the church of St. Leonardo; and holding each
other's hands, approached the brink of the river, in order to cool their
burning lips and throbbing heads with a little water. As they bent over
the stream for that purpose, a violent blow from an invisible arm was
aimed at Francesca, and hurled her into the Tiber. Vannozza fell with
her; and, clasped in each other's arms, they were rapidly carried away
by the current, and saw no means of escape. "They were lovely in their
lives, and in their deaths they were not divided," might well have been
said of them, had the watery grave, which seemed inevitable, swallowed
up on that day the two brides of the Ponziani. But it was not the will
of God that they should perish. Human aid was not at hand; the stream
was rapid, the current deep, and the eddies curled around them; but they
called upon God with one voice, and in an instant the waters, as if
instinct with life, and obedient to a heavenly command, bore them gently
to the shore, and deposited them unhurt on the green margin of the
river.

About this time also a supernatural favour of the most extraordinary
nature was vouchsafed to Francesca. Her guardian angel, who was one day
to accompany her, not by an invisible presence only, as in the case of
all Christians, but, by a rare privilege of grace, in a visible form,
ever manifest to her spiritual sight, now began to reveal himself to her
by the most watchful observance of her conduct. At all times and in
all places, by day and by night, her slightest faults were noticed and
punished by this still invisible, but now evidently present monitor. At
the least imperfection in her conduct, before she had time to accuse and
to condemn herself, she felt the blow of a mysterious hand, the
warning of an ever-attentive guardian; and the sound of that mystical
chastisement was audible to others also. Great was the astonishment
of those who could thus discern something of God's dealings with this
chosen soul. Once, when she had abstained through human respect from
interrupting the course of a very frivolous and useless conversation,
the warning was inflicted with such severity that she bore the mark of
the blow for several succeeding days.

Such a rapid advance in holiness, such new and ever-increasing virtues,
were the results of this supernatural tuition, that Satan now attempted
to seduce her by the wiliest of his artifices, the master-piece of
his art, his favourite sin,--"the pride that apes humility." So many
miracles wrought in her favour, such strange revelations of God's
peculiar love for her soul, awakened in Francesca's mind, or rather the
devil suggested to her the thought, that it might be better to conceal
them from her director, or at least to acquaint him with only a portion
of the wonders that were wrought in her behalf; and accordingly, the
next time she went to confession she refrained from mentioning the
signal grace which had been vouchsafed to her. At the very instant she
was thrown prostrate on the ground, and recognised the hand of her
heavenly monitor in the blow which thus warned her of the grievous
error into which she was falling. In that short moment she had time to
perceive and acknowledge it; and with intense contrition she confessed
to her director the false humility which had beguiled her into a
dangerous reserve, with perfect openness revealed to him the whole of
God's past and present dealings with her soul, and explained to him
the meaning of what had just taken place. Don Antonio listened with
astonishment and gratitude, and thus addressed her: "You have just
escaped from a great danger, my daughter; for those who aim at
perfection cannot conceal any thing from their spiritual guide without
running the risk of delusion. By your mistaken silence you were
complying with the suggestions of Satan, who, under the semblance of
humility, was seeking to awaken in you a secret and baneful pride. You
would have been led by degrees to over-estimate these supernatural
favours, to deem them not merely means of grace, but rewards due to your
merits; to despise those to whom God does not grant them; and to give
yourself up to extravagant and unauthorised austerities in order to
secure their continuance, and to distinguish yourself in your own and
others' sight. I should have forbidden you to practise them; you would
have been tempted to renounce my guidance, to take one confessor after
another, until you had found one weak or blind enough to approve your
self-will; and then the arch-enemy of mankind, under the garb of an
angel of light, would have made you the prey of his delusions, till
at last you might have fallen from one error into another, and made
shipwreck of your faith. Such has been the downward course of many a
soul, that has begun by yielding to a false humility--the offspring of
pride--and has ended in sin and perdition."

From that time forward, Francesca was on her guard against every species
of pride and self-reliance, however disguised and refined. She related
her faults and temptations, the graces she received and the favours she
obtained, with the same childlike openness and simplicity. It was at the
age of sixteen that she was thus advanced in the science of the saints;
and every day her virtues and her piety increased.




CHAPTER IV.

THE BIRTH OF FRANCESCA'S FIRST CHILD--HER CARE IN HIS EDUCATION--SHE
UNDERTAKES THE MANAGEMENT OF HER FATHER-IN-LAW'S HOUSEHOLD--A FAMINE
AND PESTILENCE IN ROME--FRANCESCA'S LABOURS FOB THE SICK AND POOR--THE
MIRACLES WROUGHT IN HER BEHALF.

The year 1400 was opening under melancholy auspices. Boniface IX. was at
that moment in possession of the pontifical throne, and celebrating the
jubilee, the periodical recurrence of which at the end of every fifty
years had been decreed by Clement VI. in 1350; but Rome was even then
in a lamentable state, and presages were not wanting of still more
disastrous times. The wars for the succession of the kingdom of Naples,
between Louis of Anjou and Ladislas Durazzo, were agitating the whole
of Italy; and the capital of the Christian world was exposed to all the
fury of the contending parties. The powerful faction of the Colonnas,
in arms against the Pope, invaded the Capitol at the head of a numerous
body of insurgents on horseback and on foot; and the air resounded with
the cries of "Long live the people! Death to the tyrant Boniface IX.!"
On that day the signal was given for a division of parties, which led
shortly afterwards to the appalling tragedy which decimated the nobility
of the Eternal City and deluged her streets with blood.

Lorenzo Ponziano, from his rank and his great possessions, as well
as from his fidelity to the Church and the Sovereign Pontiff, was
especially marked out as an enemy by the adverse faction. But while on
every side the storm was brewing, and the aspect of public affairs each
day more gloomy, a blessing was granted to him which for the last five
years he had ardently desired. The expectation of an heir to the family
of Ponziano filled him and his parents with inexpressible delight.
Francesca, in the meantime, was incessantly occupied in recommending to
God the child she was about to bear; and offered up her every little
act of devotion in its behalf, with the hope of drawing down the Divine
blessing on its future existence. In the same year she was happily
delivered of a son, who was immediately baptised in the church of Santa
Cecilia in Trastevere, and received the name of Giovanni Baptista.
It was not at that time the custom for ladies of rank to nurse their
children; but Francesca set aside all such considerations, and never
consented to forego a mother's sacred privilege. She did not intrust her
child for a moment to the care of others, afraid that, in her absence,
the utterance of unworthy sentiments, bad manners and habits, which even
in infancy may cause impressions not easily eradicated, should taint
with the least evil the heart and mind of her son. It is remarkable how
careful the holy mothers which we read of in the lives of the Saints
appear to have been of the circumstances attending the infancy of their
children,--that period during which we are apt to suppose that no
impressions can be given or received. Are we not perhaps in error
on that point?--As much that we read and apparently forget leaves
notwithstanding a certain deposit in our minds, which comes into play
when called forth by association, so, may not certain sights, sounds,
and words, not understood at the time, impart a certain colour, stamp
certain images on the mind of an infant, which, however dim and
confused, deepen and grow with it as it expands? There have been
curious psychological instances of names, of languages, of dormant
recollections, reawakening as it were under a peculiar condition of the
nervous system, and which could only be traced to impressions received
in the earliest stages of existence.

Francesca, in obedience to her director, as well as guided by her own
sense of duty, modified for the time being her usual mode of life, and
occupied herself with the care of her child in preference to all other
observances of charity or of devotion. She did not complain or regret
that she had to give up her habitual religious exercises, in order to
tend and to nurse the little creature whom she looked upon as the gift
of God, and whose careful training the best offering she could make in
return. The joy which she had felt in her infant's birth was marred by
the death of her father, who, when his grandson was placed in his arms,
exclaimed in the words of St. Simeon, "Lord, now lettest Thou thy
servant depart in peace;" and the words seem to have been prophetic, for
he died almost immediately afterwards, and was buried in the vaults of
Santa Agnese, in the Piazza Nuova. At a later period, when that church
was reconstructed, his remains were transported to the cloisters of
Tor Di Specchi, where the simple inscription, "Here lies Paul Bussa,"
remains to this day. Francesca, in pursuance of her desire, not only to
exclude evil, but to infuse good dispositions at the earliest possible
period into her baby's soul, lost no opportunity of imparting to him the
first notions of religion. Before he could speak, she used to repeat
to him every day the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, clasp his little
hands together, and direct his eyes to heaven, and to the images of
Jesus and Mary, whose names were of course the first words he learned to
utter. She checked in him by grave looks, and slight punishments fitted
to his age, every ebullition of self-will, obstinacy, and anger; and
later, of deceit, envy, and immodesty. Though she had the most tender
mother's heart, she seldom indulged in passionate caresses, and never
left unchastised any of his faults, or gave way in any instance to his
tears and impatience. When others objected that it was absurd to expect
self-command from a creature whose reason was not developed, she
maintained that habits of self-control are to be acquired at the
earliest age, and that the benefit thus obtained extends to the whole of
life. The child thus trained lived to prove the wisdom of her views, and
became in difficult times the support of his family and an honour to
their name.

About a year after the birth of Giovanni Baptista, Cecilia, Lorenzo's
mother, died. Andreazzo Ponziano, and both his sons, fully conscious of
the prudence and virtue of Francesca, resolved to place her at the head
of the house, and to commit to her alone the superintendence of their
domestic affairs and the whole management of the household. Distressed
at the proposal, she pleaded her youth and inexperience, and urged that
Vannozza, as the wife of the eldest brother, was as a matter of course
entitled to that position. Vannozza, however, pleaded with such
eagerness that it was her most anxious desire not to occupy it, and
that all she wished was to be Francesca's disciple and companion, that,
overcome by the general importunity, she found herself obliged to
comply. Now it was that her merit shone conspicuously. Placed at
the head of the most opulent house in Rome, no symptom of pride, of
haughtiness, or of self-complacency, ever revealed itself in her looks
or in her actions. She was never heard to speak a harsh or impatient
word. Firm in requiring from every person in her house the proper
fulfilment of their duties, she did it in the gentlest manner. Always
courteous to her servants, she urged them to serve God with diligence,
and watched over their souls redeemed by His precious blood. Her address
was so winning and persuasive, that it seldom failed of its effect. She
contrived to arrange the hours of their labour with so much order and
skill, that each had sufficient leisure to hear Mass, to attend the
parochial instructions on Sundays and holidays, to frequent the
Sacraments, and join every day in family prayer,--fulfilling the whole
of a Christian's duty. If by any chance (and it was a rare one in a
house thus governed) a quarrel arose between any of the servants, she
was always ready to come forward, appease angry passions, and reconcile
differences. If, in so doing, she had occasion to speak with what she
considered undue severity to one of the parties, she would immediately
apologise with tears, and in the humblest manner entreat forgiveness.
This extreme sweetness of disposition, however, did not degenerate into
weakness; and she could testify the utmost displeasure, and reproved
with energy when offences were committed against God. It was intolerable
to her that His Divine Majesty should be insulted in her abode; and
she, the gentlest and most unassuming of women, could display on such
occasions the greatest firmness.

One day, it is recorded, several gentlemen had been dining with Lorenzo;
and one of them after dinner drew from his pocket a book which contained
a treatise on magic. Lorenzo took it up, and was examining it with some
curiosity, when his wife stole noiselessly behind him, took it out of
his hands, and threw it into the fire. Nettled by this proceeding, her
husband reproached her in rather bitter terms for her incivility to
their guest; but she, who was habitually submissive to his least word,
only replied that she could not regret the destruction of what might
have proved to many an occasion of sin. She inexorably consigned to the
flames in the same manner every bad book that came in her way.

Her tender charity was evinced when any of the inmates of the palace
were ill. She was then the affectionate nurse of the sufferers, and
spent whole nights by their bedside. Nothing ever discouraged or wearied
her; the lowest servant in the house was attended to, as if she had been
her own mother or sister. More anxious still for their soul's health
than their body's, she was known to go out herself alone at night in
search of a priest when a sudden case of danger had occurred beneath her
roof. Her charity was in one instance miraculously rewarded by a direct
interposition of Providence, in a matter apparently trifling, but on
which, humanly speaking, her dear sister Vannozza's existence seemed to
turn. She was dangerously ill, and had been for days unable to swallow
any food; the very sight of it caused her intolerable nausea; and from
sheer exhaustion her life was reduced to so low an ebb, that the worst
was apprehended. On Francesca's inquiring if she could think of any
thing which she could imagine it possible to eat, she named a certain
fish, which was not in season at that time. The markets were scoured by
the servants, but naturally in vain, and they returned empty-handed to
the dejected Francesca, who, kneeling by the bedside of her friend,
betook herself, with arduous faith and childlike simplicity, to prayer.
When she raised her head, the much-wished-for article of food was lying
before her; and the first morsel of it that Vannozza eat restored her to
health.

She had been about a year at the head of her father-in-law's house,
when Rome fell under the double scourge of famine and pestilence. The
Ponziani were immensely rich, and their palace furnished with every kind
of provisions. Francesca forbade her servants to send away a single poor
person without relieving their wants; and not content with this, she
sought them out herself, invited them to come to her, and made them
continual presents of corn, wine, oil, and clothing. She exhorted them
to bear their sufferings with patience, to return to God and to their
religious duties, and to strive by fervent prayer to appease the Divine
wrath, provoked by the crimes of mankind. Vannozza and herself were
indefatigable in their visits to the hospitals and the out-of-the-way
corners of the city.

Andreazzo Ponziano, a good man, but not a saint, was alarmed at the
excessive liberality of his daughter-in-law, and feared that it would
end in producing a famine in his own house. He began by prudently
withdrawing from their hands the key of the granary; and then, for
greater security, afraid perhaps of yielding to their entreaties, which
he was not accustomed to resist, he took to selling whatever corn he
possessed beyond what was required for the daily consumption of the
family. Nothing, therefore, remained in the corn-loft but a huge heap of
straw. The provident old man followed the same plan with his cellar, and
sold all the wine it contained, with the exception of one cask, which
was reserved for his own and his children's use.

Meanwhile the scarcity went on increasing every day, and the number
of starving wretches in proportion. Franceses, unable to meet their
demands, and still more incapable of leaving them to perish, braved at
last all false shame and repugnance, and resolved with Vannozza to go
into the streets and beg for the poor. Then were seen those two noble
and lovely women standing at the doors of the churches, knocking at the
gates of the palace, following the rich in the public places, pleading
with tears the cause of the sufferers, gladly receiving the abundant
alms that were sometimes bestowed upon them, and not less gladly the
sneers, the repulses, the insulting words that often fell to their share
in these pilgrimages of mercy. At last the famine reached its height. At
every side,--on the pavement, in the corners of the streets,--were lying
crowds of persons, barely clothed with a few tattered rags, haggard
with hunger, wasted with fever, and calling upon death to end their
sufferings. It was a grievous, a horrible sight,--one that well-nigh
broke the heart of our saint. The moanings of the dying were in her
ears; the expression of their ghastly faces haunted her day and night.
She would have gladly shed her blood for them, and fed them with
her life. A sudden inspiration came over her one day: "Come to the
corn-loft," she exclaimed, turning to Vannozza, and to Clara, a
favourite and pious servant of theirs; "Come with me to the corn-loft;
let us see if amongst the straw we may not succeed in finding a few
grains of corn for the poor." And on their knees for several hours those
patient, loving women sifted the straw, and by dint of labour collected
about a measure of corn, which they were bearing away in triumph, when
the God who caused the widow's oil not to fail, and made her barrel of
meal last through a scarcely more grievous famine, was preparing their
reward. Lorenzo had entered the granary just as they were carrying off
their hard-earned treasure, and, looking about him, beheld in place of
the straw which was lying there a moment before, 40 measures of
bright yellow corn, so shining and so full, says Francesca's earliest
biographer, that it seemed as though it had been raised in Paradise, and
reaped there by angels. In silent astonishment he pointed out to them
the miraculous supply, and must have felt in that hour what such virtue
as his wife's and his sister's could even in this world win of mercy at
God's hands. But corn was not enough; the sick wanted wine. They came,
poor pallid ghosts, just risen from their beds of suffering, to beg it
of Francesca; aged men and delicate children, mothers with infants at
their breasts, poor worn-out priests sinking with exhaustion, and yet
willing to assist others, they had recourse to her for a little wine to
strengthen them in their works of mercy, and she had no wine to give,
save out of the single cask in the cellar. She gave it, nevertheless;
and day after day drew from it, till not a drop was left. Andreazzo,
provoked, waxed very wroth; he had never before been angry with
Francesca, but now he stormed and raved at her; he had been to the
cellar to see the wine drawn for that day's use, and not a drop was in
the cask. "Charity indeed!" he exclaimed, "charity begins at home;
a pretty sort of virtue this, which, under the pretext of assisting
strangers, introduces penury and privation into the midst of a person's
own family." He vented his anger in bitter reproaches; Lorenzo and
Paluzzo were also inclined to take his part, and joined in severely
blaming Francesca. She the while, with a gentle voice and quiet manner,
breathing most probably a secret prayer to her who at the marriage-feast
of Cana turned to her Son and said, "They have no wine," doubtless with
an inward assurance that God would befriend her in an extraordinary,
but not to her an unprecedented manner, thus addressed them: "Do not be
angry; let us go to the cellar; may be, through God's mercy, that the
cask may be full by this time." They followed her with an involuntary
submission; and on reaching the spot, saw her turn the cock of the
barrel, out of which there instantly flowed the most exquisite wine,
which Andreazzo acknowledged to be superior to any he had ever tasted.
The venerable old man turned to his daughter-in-law, and, with tears in
his eyes, exclaimed,

"Oh, my dear child, dispose henceforward of every thing I possess, and
multiply without end those alms that have gained you such favour in
God's sight."

The report of this miracle spread far and wide; and, in spite of
her humility, Francesca did not object to its being divulged, as it
testified to the Divine virtue of almsgiving, and encouraged the rich to
increase their liberality, and minister more abundantly to the suffering
members of Christ.

A kind of religious awe seems to have taken possession of Lorenzo's
mind, at the sight of so many wonders wrought in his house. The great
esteem in which he had always held his wife, now took the form of a
profound veneration. He recommended her to follow in every respect the
divine inspirations she received, and left her entirely free to order
her life and dispose of her time in any way she thought fit. Francesca,
after consulting with her director, took advantage of this permission to
execute what had been her long-cherished desire. Selling all her rich
dresses, her jewels, and her ornaments, she distributed the money
amongst a number of poor families, and from that time forward never
wore herself any other gown than one of coarse dark-green cloth. Her
mortifications became so continual and severe, her fasts so rigid, that
it is difficult to conceive how her health could have sustained them
without miraculous support, or how she can have found time for all
her duties, and the incredible number of good works which she daily
performed. When we consider that she was unremitting in her attention
to her children, that she was never known to neglect the diligent
superintendence of household affairs, that she repeatedly visited the
hospitals and the poor sick in their houses, that morning and evening
she went to the churches where indulgences were to be gained, recited
numerous vocal prayers, often spent hours in contemplation, and in the
garden oratory, where with Vannozza, Clara, and Rita Celli, a devout
young person who was admitted into their intimacy, she read spiritual
books or conversed on religious subjects,--our admiration is
quickened; for that zeal and strong will could work wonders all but
incomprehensible to those who have not put their shoulder to the wheel
in good earnest, or learnt to appreciate the priceless value of every
minute of this short life.




CHAPTER V.

THE BIRTH OF FRANCESCA'S SECOND SON--HIS SUPERNATURAL GIFTS--THE
BIRTH OF HER DAUGHTER--SATANIC ATTACKS UPON FRANCESCA---TROUBLES OF
ROME--FRANCESCA'S HUSBAND IS SEVERELY WOUNDED--HER ELDEST SON, WHEN
GIVEN UP AS A HOSTAGE TO THE NEAPOLlTANS, IS MIRACULOUSLY RESTORED TO
HER.

FRANCESCA had just attained the age of twenty when her second son was
born. He was baptised on the day of his birth, and received the name
of Giovanni Evan--gelista. The contemporary biographer, some of whose
sayings have been already quoted, mentions of this child that he was
endowed with wonderful gifts of grace, and that the love of God was
manifested in him even before he could speak. In his quaint language he
thus describes him: "Evangelista was old in sense, small in body, great
in soul, resplendent in beauty, angel-like in all his ways." He might
well have been termed, in familiar language, his mother's own child;
for in his veriest infancy his only pleasure was to be carried into
churches, or to give alms to the needy, especially to the poor
religious, for whom he had a special predilection. Francesca's delight
in this lovely little infant was indescribable. He was to her as one of
God's own angels, and tears of joy filled her eyes as she mused on the
extraordinary signs of grace which he daily evinced. Supernatural had
been the mother's virtues, supernatural were the qualities of the child;
at the age of three years old he was endowed with the gift of prophecy,
and the faculty of reading the un-uttered thoughts of men's hearts.

Singular instances of this power are on record. He was in his mother's
arms one day, when two mendicant friars approached the Ponziano Palace.
Instantly stretching out his little hands, Evangelista took from
Francesca the alms she was wont to bestow on such visitors, and held
it out to them; but at the same time looking steadfastly at one of the
monks, he said to him, "Why will you put off this holy habit? you will
wear a finer one; but woe to you who forget your vow of poverty."

The friar coloured and turned away; but it was soon evident that the
words were prophetic, for within a short time, and after obtaining a
bishopric through a simoniacal act, the unhappy man died a violent
death. That same year, Evangelista was in his parent's room one day;
and his father taking him up on his knees, was playing with him, and
devouring him with kisses. In the midst of his sport, the child turned
suddenly pale, and laying hold of a dagger which had been left on the
table, he placed the point of it against Lorenzo's side, and said to him
as he looked up into his face with a strange melancholy smile, "Thus
will they do to you, my father." And it so happened that at the time
of the invasion of Rome by the troops of Ladislas Durazzo, the lord of
Ponziano was dangerously wounded in the exact place and manner which his
little son had pointed out.

Evangelista was not quite three years old when his little sister Agnese
was born, who in beauty, heavenly sweetness of temper, and precocious
piety, proved the exact counterpart of her brother. Soon after her
confinement, Francesca had a vision which impressed her with the belief
that God would one day claim this child as His own. She saw a dove of
dazzling whiteness, bearing in its beak a tiny lighted taper, enter the
room; and after making two or three circles in the air, it stooped over
Agnese's cradle, touched her brow and limbs with the taper, gently
fluttered its wings, and flew away. Looking upon this as a sign that the
little maiden would be called to the monastic life, she brought her up
as a precious deposit only lent her for a time, and to be delivered up
at no distant period. With even stricter care than she had used with her
brother, if that were possible, she watched over the little girl; never
leaving her for a single moment, and performing towards her the
offices of a servant as well as of a mother. She kept her in complete
retirement, never taking her out of doors except to church; teaching her
to love Jesus supremely--better even than her parents--and entertaining
her with descriptions of that dear Saviour's adorable perfections. She
encouraged her to observe silence, to work with her hands at stated
times, and taught her to read in the lives of the saints of holy virgins
and martyrs. Agnese's character and turn of mind answered precisely to
her mother's wishes; and the perfection of her conduct was such, that
she was generally designated by all who knew her as the little saint or
the little angel.

The years of Evangelista's and Agnese's infancy had been most disastrous
ones to the unhappy inhabitants of Rome. The factions which had arisen
in consequence of the schism, and of the intrigues of Ladislas of
Naples, had banished all security, and converted the town into a
field of battle, where bloody conflicts were daily taking place. The
principles of union seemed banished from the world. The nations and
sovereigns of Europe, given up to the most selfish policy, ceased to
acknowledge the chief pastor of the Church; and the Eternal City,
beyond any other place, had become an arena for ferocious struggles
and sanguinary conspiracies. The year 1406 brought with it a momentary
semblance of peace, and Francesca and Vannozza availed themselves of
that breathing-time to revisit some of the distant churches, and attend
the Italians as before. They used to walk to them on foot at the
earliest break of day, accompanied by Rita Celli, the young person
already mentioned, and Lucia degli Aspalli, a devout married woman
nearly related to the Ponziano family. They repeated psalms and litanies
on their way, or spent the time in pious meditation, and remained some
hours in prayer before the altars which they visited in turn,--taking
care to be at home again by the time that their presence was required.
In that troubled epoch the voice of the preacher was seldom heard;
sermons, however, were occasionally delivered by the Franciscans and the
Dominicans in the churches of Ara Coeli and Santa Maria sopra Minerva;
and at these our saints never failed to assist. Their spiritual guide
had given them leave to go to communion several times a week. This was
a privilege seldom granted and seldom sought for in those distracted
times. The blessed practice of daily communion, which universally
prevailed amongst the early Christians,--that practice which turns earth
into heaven, and converts the land of exile into a paradise of peace
and joy,--was all but entirely neglected, or only kept up in some few
cloisters. The two sisters habitually communicated in the church of
Santa Cecilia, the nearest to their house. One of the priests of that
parish was scandalised at the frequency of their communions, and
persuaded himself that it was incredible that young women of their age,
and in such a position of life, could possibly be in possession of
the requisite dispositions. This unhappy man ventured one day to give
Franeesca an unconsecrated wafer; God instantly revealed to the saint
the sin of the priest, and she informed her director of the fact. Don
Antonio disclosed to the astonished offender the secret which had been
confined to his own breast. He confessed his fault with the deepest
contrition, implored God's pardon, asked forgiveness of the saint, and
received the humiliation as a warning against rash judgments.

The warfare which Satan was permitted to carry on against Francesca
became more and more violent at this period of her life. In actual
outrages, in terrific visions, in mystical but real sufferings, which
afflicted every sense and tortured every nerve, the animosity of the
evil spirit evinced itself; and Almighty God permitted it, for she was
of those chosen through much tribulation to ascend the steep path which
is paved with thorns and compassed with darkness, but on which the ray
of an unearthly sunshine breaks at times. She was to partake of the
miraculous gifts of the saints; to win men's souls through prayer, to
read the secrets of their hearts, to see angels walking by her side, to
heal diseases by the touch of her hands, and hold the devils at bay,
when they thought to injure the bodies of others or wage war with
her own spirit. But such heights of glory are not gained without
proportionate suffering; the cup of which Jesus drank to the dregs in
His agony she was to drink of, the baptism of horror with which He
was baptised was to be her's also in a measure; and that mysterious
weakness, that divine helplessness of His, which allowed Satan to carry
Him, the Lord of all, to the pinnacle of the temple or the brow of the
mountain, was not unshared by His servant. Strange and bewildering were
the assaults she endured, but still more wonderful the defeats of the
evil one. Of her triumph, as of those of her Lord, it may be said, "that
when the devil left her, then angels came and ministered unto her."
Strange, that those who believe the history of Jesus should turn
incredulously away from that of His saints; for did He not expressly
say, that what He suffered, they should suffer; that where He had
overcome, they would triumph; and that the works that He performed, aye
and greater works still, they should accomplish?

On one occasion, when on the point of setting out for the Basilica of
St. Peter's, Vannozza was violently precipitated down the stairs of the
palace by the power of the evil spirit, and fell at her sister's feet,
who at that instant heard a voice whispering in her ear, "I would kill
thy sister, and drive thee to despair;" but at the same moment an inward
revelation bade Francesca raise up the prostrate form of her friend,
and apply to her bruised limbs an ointment which instantly relieved the
pains of her fall. Another time our saint was lifted up by the hair of
her head, and suspended over a precipice for the space of some minutes;
with perfect calmness she called upon Jesus, and in a moment found
herself in safety within her room. Her first act was to cut off her
beautiful hair, and, offer it up as a thank-offering to Him who had
saved her from the hands of the infernal enemy. These are only specimens
of the trials of this nature to which Francesca was more or less
subjected all her life, but to which it will not be necessary again to
make more than casual allusion.

In the year 1409, when she was about twenty-seven years old, her
temporal calamities began. After Ladislas of Naples, befriended by the
enemies of the Pope, and in 1408 gained possession of Rome by fraudulent
means he left behind him as governor of the city the Count Pietro Traja,
a rough and brutal soldier, well fitted to serve the fierce passions of
his master. He was continually looking out for occasions to persecute
those Roman nobles who remained faithful to the cause of the Church.
He was abetted in this by the faction of the Colonnas, and some other
powerful families, who supported the pretensions of the anti-Popes
Gregory XII. and Benedict XIII. against the legitimate pontiff Alexander
V., recently elected by the Council of Pisa. The troops of Lewis of
Anjou, the rival of Ladislas in the kingdom of Naples, had in the mean
time entered that portion of Rome which went by the name of the Leonine
City, and gained possession of the Vatican and the castle of St. Angelo.
Several skirmishes took place between the forces of the usurper and the
troops of the Pope and of Lewis of Anjou. Lorenzo Ponziano, who from
his birth and his talents was the most eminent man of his party, and an
ardent supporter of the legitimate cause, commanded the pontifical army
on one of these occasions, and was personally engaged in a conflict
with the Count of Traja's soldiers. In the midst of the fray he was
recognised by the opposite party, and became the special mark of their
attacks. Fighting with heroic courage, he had nearly succeeded in
dispersing his assailants, when, as Evangelista had foretold the year
before, a dagger was treacherously thrust into his side, and inflicted
so deep a wound that he fell to the ground, and was taken up for dead.
The terrible news was carried to the Ponziano palace, and announced
to Francesca. The anguish that her countenance revealed filled the
bystanders with compassion; but it was only for an instant that she
stood as if transfixed and overwhelmed with grief.

Repressing by a strong effort her bursting sobs and the cries that were
breaking from her heart, she soon raised her eyes to heaven with a
steadfast gaze, forgave the assassin, offered up Lorenzo's life and her
own, and murmured the words of Job, "The Lord had given him, the Lord
has taken him away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Then, calm,
composed, braced for endurance, she courageously advanced to meet the
slow approach of those who were bringing back to his home the body of
her murdered husband. As they laid him in the hall of the palace, she
knelt by his side, and putting her face close to his, she discerned in
the apparently lifeless form the faint symptoms of lingering vitality.
The sudden revulsion of hope did not overcome her presence of mind. She
instantly desired those about her to send for a priest and for a doctor;
and then, bending over Lorenzo, she suggested to him, in words which
found their way to the understanding of the dying man, whatever the most
affectionate tenderness and the most ardent piety could devise at such a
moment,--to prepare the soul for its last flight, pardon for his foes,
and especially for his assassin, a firm trust in God, and the union of
his sufferings with those of his Lord.

The palace presented a scene of wild confusion. Armed men were moving to
and fro; the clash of arms was mingled with the groans of the servants:
the weeping and waitings of the women and of the children, vows of
vengeance, curses deep and loud, frantic regrets, were heard on every
side. Francesca alone was as an angel of peace, in the midst of the
uproar of passion and the outpouring of grief. Her's was the keenest
sorrow of all; but it was kept under by the strength of a long-practised
faith, and thus it interfered with no duty and staggered at no trial.
Day and night she watched by Lorenzo's couch. Her experience in nursing
the sick, and in dressing wounds, enabled her to render him the most
minute and efficacious assistance. Her watchful love, her tender
assiduity, received its reward; God gave her that life, far dearer to
her than her own. Contrary to all expectation, Lorenzo slowly recovered;
but for a long time remained in a precarious condition.

Meanwhile the Count of Traja, pressed on every side, began to foresee
the necessity of leaving Rome; but, in his exasperation, resolved
previously to wreak his vengeance on the families most devoted to the
Pope, and especially on that of the Ponziani, which was especially
obnoxious to him. He accordingly arrested Paluzzo, Vannozza's husband,
and kept him in close confinement; and understanding that Lorenzo had a
son of eight or nine years old, he commanded that he should be given
up into his hands as a hostage, and swore that in case of a refusal
he would put Paluzzo to death. Now, indeed, is Francesca tried almost
beyond the power of endurance: now is her cup of anguish filled to the
brim. She can ask counsel of none: Lorenzo she dares not consult: it
might kill him to hear the fearful truth. Others would say, "Give up the
child;" and she looks at his fair face, at his innocent eyes, at the
purity of his spotless brow; and she cannot, she will not, she must not
give him up. Oh, that she had the wings of a dove to fly away and carry
him hence! She takes him by the hand, and, like a second Hagar, goes
forth, whither she knows not. It is an instinct, an impulse, an
inspiration. It is the mother's heart within her that bids her fly from
the horrible dilemma, and save her child from the tyrant who seeks more
than his life,--who would ruin his soul. Through out-of-the-way streets,
into the deserted corners of the city she goes, clasping the boy's hand
with an agonising grasp, with but one thought--to hide him from every
eye. Suddenly she stops short; before her stands Don Antonio, her
long-trusted director, who has led her through the green pastures
in which her spirit has found rest. He questions her, and hears the
incoherent account of her fears, her anguish, and her flight. By a
supernatural light he sees the drift of this trial, and puts her faith
to the test. "Francesca," he said, "you fly to save the child; God bids
me tell you that it is to the Capitol you must carry him--there lies his
safety; and do you go to the Church of Ara Cceli." A fierce struggle
rose in Francesca's heart--the greatest storm that had ever convulsed
it. "To the Capitol!" she is about to cry. "It is at the Capitol that
the tyrant awaits him!" But ere the words are uttered, they die away
on her lips. Grace has gained the mastery; the faith of the saint has
asserted its power. The wild expression passes away from her eyes; she
bows her head in silence, and with a firm step retraces her steps, in
obedience to him who has spoken in God's name. In the mean time the
report of the event had spread through Rome, and in the more crowded
streets which she had to pass through a cry of pity and of terror arose.
Crowds press about her, and bid her turn back; they tell her she is mad
to surrender the child, they try to take him from her, and to carry him
back by force to his father's palace; but in vain. She waves them
off, and pursues her way till she has reached the Capitol. She walked
straight up to the place where the Neapolitan tyrant was standing, and
surrendered up the boy to him; and then, without once looking back, she
hurried into the Church of Ara Coeli, fell prostrate at the feet of the
Mother of Mercy, and before that sacred image, dear to this day to every
Catholic parent, she made the sacrifice of her child, of her life, of
her soul, of all that in that hour she had felt to give up. Then, for
the first time, a torrent of tears relieved her tight-bound heart; and
gazing on the picture, she saw the dove-like eyes of the Blessed Virgin
assume the tenderest and most encouraging expression, and in her ears
were whispered words welcome as the dew to the thirsty ground; sweet as
the notes of the bird when the storm has subsided: "Be not afraid; I am
here to befriend you."

She was at peace; she felt sure that her son was safe; and on her knees,
in speechless prayer, she waited the event. Nor did she wait long. When
she had left the Count of Traja's presence, he had ordered one of his
officers to take the little Baptista on his horse, and carry him away to
a place he appointed; but, from the instant that the child was placed on
the saddle, no efforts could induce the animal to stir from the spot.
In vain his rider urged him with spurs and whip: neither the severest
blows, nor the accustomed voice of his master, succeeded in moving him
an inch from the place, where he stood as motionless as a statue. Four
of the knights of Naples renewed the attempt. Four successive steeds
were tried for the purpose, and always with the same result. There is a
strength greater than man's will; there is a power that defeats human
malice. Struck with a secret terror and dismay by the evident prodigy,
the Count of Traja gave up the unequal contest, and ordered the child
to be restored to his mother. Before the altar of the Ara Coeli, at the
foot of that image, where in her anguish she had fallen and found hope
when hope seemed at end, Francesca received back into her arms the
son of her love, and blessed the God who had given her strength to go
through this the severest of her trials.




CHAPTER VI.

SUFFERINGS OF ROME FROM THE TROOPS OF LADISLAS--DEATH OF FRANCESCA'S SON
EVANGELISTA--THE FAMINE AND PLAGUE IN ROME--FRANCESCA'S LABOURS FOR THE
STARVlNG AND SICK--HER MIRACLES.

POPE ALEXANDER V. died at Bologna in 1410. Sixteen cardinals assembled
in that city, and chose for his successor Balthazar Cossa, who took
the name of John XXIII. While they were proceeding with the election,
Ladislas seized the opportunity of the interregnum once more to advance
upon Rome; and from Veletri he threatened it with a second invasion. The
new Pope renewing the alliance with Lewis of Anjou, they combined their
forces against Ladislas, and endeavoured to drive him back from the
position he had taken. Their arms proved successful in a first battle;
but Lewis having withdrawn his troops immediately after the victory,
Ladislas deceived the Holy Father by a pretended peace, gained
possession of Rome, and gave it up to pillage. The horrors of this
invasion, and of the sack that followed it, surpassed in atrocity almost
all those which had previously afflicted the capital of the Christian
world. A number of palaces and houses were destroyed, the basilicas
were despoiled of their treasures and desecrated by the most abominable
orgies, the churches turned into stables, and many of the faithful
adherents of the Church subjected to the torture or barbarously put to
death.

The Ponziani were amongst the principal of the Pope's supporters; and
Lorenzo, scarcely recovered from his long illness, was persuaded by his
friends to withdraw himself by flight from the fury of the conqueror,
and conceal himself in a distant province. It had been impossible to
remove his wife and children; and Francesca remained exposed to a
succession of the most trying disasters. The wealth of the family
chiefly consisted in their country possessions, and the immense number
of cattle which were bred on those broad lands; and day after day
intelligence was brought to her that one farm-house or another was
burnt or pillaged, the flocks dispersed or destroyed, and the shepherds
murdered by a ruthless soldiery. Terrified peasants made their escape
into the city, and scared the inhabitants of the palace with dreadful
accounts of the death of their companions, and of the destruction of
property which was continually going on. A cry of despair rang from
Mount Soracte to the Alban Hill, extended to the shores of the
Mediterranean, and resounded in the palaces of Rome, carrying dismay to
the hearts of its ruined and broken-spirited nobles.

Francesca received the tidings with an aching heart indeed; for her
compassion for the sufferings of others did not permit her to remain
unmoved amidst such dire misfortunes. Still she never lost her habitual
composure; her only occupation was to console the mourners: her first
impulse on these occasions to bless God, and accept at His hands all
that His providence ordained. It was well that she was resigned, and
had learned the lesson of courage at the foot of the Cross; for, like
a flood at spring-tide, her afflictions were increasing every day,
threatening to overwhelm all landmarks but those of an indomitable
faith. One fatal morning, a troop of savage ruffians, drunk with rage,
and vociferating blasphemies, broke into the palace, clamouring after
Lorenzo, and threatening to torture the servants if they did not
instantly reveal his place of concealment; and ended by carrying away
Baptista, who clung in vain to his mother's neck, and was only parted
from her by force. When they had succeeded in tearing him away from
her arms, they proceeded to pillage, and all but to destroy, the
time-honoured residence of the Ponziani. In the space of a few hours
that gorgeous abode was turned into a heap of ruins. Bereft of her
husband, of her son, and of all the conveniences of life, Francesca,
with her two younger children, remained alone and unprotected; for her
brother-in-law, Paluzzo, who might have been a support to her in that
dreadful moment, was still a prisoner in the tyrant's hands, and her
innocent boy shared the same fate. It is not exactly known how long
his captivity lasted; but it may be supposed that means were found of
effecting his release, and sending him to Lorenzo; for it is mentioned
that, at the period when the troubles were at an end, and peace restored
to the city of Rome, the father and the son returned together.

In the mean time, Francesca took shelter in a corner of her ruined
habitation; and there, with Evangelista and Agnese, she managed to
live in the most complete seclusion. These two children were now their
mother's only comfort, as their education was her principal occupation.
Evangelista, as he advanced in age, in no way belied the promise of his
infancy. He lived in spirit with the angels and saints, and seemed more
fitted for their society than for any earthly companionship. "To be with
God" was his only dream of bliss. Though scarcely nine years old, he
already helped his mother in all the pains she took with Agnese's
education

The hour for another sacrifice was, however, at hand. It was not long
delayed. The second invasion of Rome had been succeeded by a dreadful
famine, which was followed in its turn by a severe pestilence. Already
one or two cases of the prevailing epidemic had appeared in the Ponziano
Palace, and then Evangelista sickened with it; and one morning Francesca
was told that the son of her love was dying. No sooner had he felt the
first symptoms of the plague, than he asked for a confessor. He never
doubted that his last hour was come; and she believed it too. Don
Antonio hurried to the bed-side of the boy, who, after he had made his
confession, sent for his mother, and taking her hand in his, addressed
her in some such words as follow:

"Mother mine, I have often told you that God would not leave me with you
long; that He will have me dwell with His angels. Jesus is my treasure,
my hope, and my joy. I have ever lived with Him in thought, in desire,
in unutterable longings. Every day I have said 'Thy kingdom come;' and
now He calls me to it. There is a crown prepared for me, my beloved
mother. The Lord is about to give it me, and we must part for awhile.
But bless His name, oh my mother. Praise Him with me; for He delivers me
from all that your love dreaded for me upon earth. There is no sin, no
sorrow, no sickness where I am going. Nothing but peace and joy and the
sight of God in that better land where the blessed are expecting me. I
must not see you weep. I will not have you grieve. Rejoice with your
child; for I see them even now, my holy advocates, St. Anthony and St.
Vauplerius. They are coming to fetch me away. Dearest mother, I will
pray for you. Evangelista will love you in heaven as he has loved you on
earth, and you will come to him there."

The dying boy then remained silent for a few moments. Then a sudden
light illumined his face; his features seemed transformed. Raising his
eyes with a look of rapture, he exclaimed, "Here are the angels come
to take me away. Give me your blessing, my mother. Do not be afraid. I
shall never forget you. God bless you and my dear father, and all who
belong to this house. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Then crossing his
little arms on his chest, he bowed down his head, a last smile passed
over his face--"she had her meed, that smile in death," and his young
spirit passed to the regions of endless bliss.

A touching prodigy, well adapted to cheer the heart of our saint, took
place that very day in a house adjoining her own. A little girl, who had
been dangerously ill for a long time, and had completely lost the power
of speech, at the very moment that Francesca's son had expired suddenly
raised herself in her bed, and exclaimed several times in a loud voice,
and in a state of evident rapture, "See, see! how beautiful! Evangelista
Ponziano is going up into heaven, and two angels with him!" The mortal
remains of the young boy were deposited in the family vault in the
church of Santa Cecilia, in Trastevere. A monument was erected there
with the simple inscription, "Here lies Evangelista Ponziano;" and a
figure in stone, clothed in a long robe, was carved upon it.

Francesca wept over the loss of her dearly-beloved child, but did not
grieve for him. How could she have done so? He was in bliss; and had
only preceded her to that heaven for which she was day by day preparing.
Nor was it a time for the idle indulgence of sorrow. Want and sickness
were turning Rome into a charnel-house. Wild voices were screaming for
bread on every side. The streets were encumbered by the victims of
contagious disease; their frantic cries and piteous moanings re-echoed
in each piazza and under every portico. Old men were dying surrounded by
the corpses of their children; mothers pressed to their milkless bosoms
their starving infants. Others crept about bereft of all their family,
and haunting like pale ghosts the scenes of their past happiness. No
carriages shook the public ways. The grass grew in the deserted streets;
one mournful equipage alone slowly pursued its course through the doomed
city, gathering as it passed the dead at every door; and when the
dreadful cargo was completed, bearing it away to the crowded cemetery.
The ruin of private property, the general penury occasioned by the
cruelties of Ladislas, and the sacking of Rome by his soldiers, had cut
off almost all the resources of private charity. Anxiety for self,
and the fear of contagion, had worked so deeply on the mind of the
multitude, that many persons abandoned even their near relatives and
friends when they were attacked by the plague. Nothing but the charity
which is of divine not of natural origin could meet such an emergency,
or cope in any degree with the awful misery of those days. Francesca,
bereaved of every thing but her one little girl, and lodged with
Vannozza and Rita in a corner of their dismantled house, had no longer
at her command the resources she had formerly possessed for the relief
of the poor. A little food from their ruined estates was now and
then supplied to these lonely women; and they scarcely partook of it
themselves, in order to bestow the greatest part on the sick and poor.
There was a large hall in the lower part of the palace which had been
less injured than any other portion of the building. It was at least a
place of shelter against the inclemencies of the weather. The sisters
converted it into a temporary hospital; but of the shattered furniture
that lay scattered about the house, they contrived to make up beds and
covering, and to prepare some clothing for the wretched creatures they
were about to receive. When all was ready, they went in search of the
sufferers. If they found any too weak to walk, they carried them into
the new asylum; there they washed and dressed their putrefying sores,
and by means which saints have often employed, and which we could hardly
bear even to think of, they conquered in themselves all repugnance to
sights and employments against which the senses and the flesh rise in
rebellion. They prepared both medicine and food; watched the sick by day
and by night; laboured incessantly for their bodies, and still more for
their souls. Many were those who recovered health through Francesca's
care, and many more who were healed of the worst disease of the soul,--a
hardened impenitence under the just judgment of God. She had the art of
awakening their fears, without driving them to despair; to make them
look upon their sufferings as a means of expiation (that great secret
of Catholic consolation), and bring them by degrees to repentance, to
confession, to the practice of long-forgotten duties, and of those
Christian virtues which her own example recommended to their hearts.

The example which the ruined and bereaved wives of the Ponziani had
given kindled a similar spirit among the hitherto apathetic inhabitants
of Rome. The magistrates of the city, struck at the sight of such
unparalleled exertions where the means were so slender, were roused from
their inaction, and in several parts of the city, especially in the
parishes of St. Cecilia and of Santa Maria in Trastevere, hospitals
and asylums were opened for the perishing multitudes. Often and often
Francesca and Vannozza saw the morning dawn, and not a bit of food of
any description did they possess for themselves or for their inmates.
They then went out to beg, as they had done before; but not merely as an
act of humility, nor dressed as heretofore as became their rank, or in
those places only where their names secured respect, and generally
a favourable answer; but in the garb of poverty, in the spots where
beggars were wont to congregate and the rich to bestow alms, they took
their stand, and gratefully received the broken bits that fell from the
tables of the wealthy. Each remnant of food, each rag of clothing, they
brought home with joy; and the mouldiest piece of bread out of their bag
was set aside for their own nourishment, while the best was bestowed on
their guests.

In our own time, in our own rich and luxurious city, there is a
counterpart to these deeds of heroic charity. There are young and
well-educated women, who in their homes never lacked the necessaries or
the comforts, nay perhaps the luxuries of life, who do the same; who
receive into their abode the aged, the maimed, the crippled, and the
deformed; lodging them in their best rooms, and themselves in cellars
or garrets; tending them as their servants, and feeding them as their
mothers; begging for them from door to door the crumbs from the tables
of the rich, and carrying along their basket, rejoicing when it is
heavy, even though their arms ache and their cheeks grow pale with the
labour; like Francesca, feeding upon the remnants of the poor feast
where the poor have sat before them.

Francesca was insulted in her career of mercy through the streets of
Rome, when civil war and anarchy were raging there in the wildest epoch
of lawless strife and fiercest passion; and the gentle sisters of the
poor, the servants of the helpless, who have abandoned home and friends
and comforts, and, above all, _respectability_, that idol of the English
mind, that wretched counterfeit of virtue, for the love which they bear
to Christ in His suffering members, have been insulted and beaten in the
streets of London in the face of day, and only because of the habit they
wore,--the badge of no common vocation,--the nun's black dress, the
livery of the poor. The parallel is consoling to them, perhaps also to
us; for is not Francesca now the cherished saint of Rome, the pride
and the love of every Roman heart? And may not the day come when our
patient, heroic nuns will be looked upon as one of God's best blessings,
in a city where luxury runs riot on the one hand, and starvation and
misery reign on the other? Will not the eye follow them with love, and
many rise up to call them blessed? Their course is like hers; may their
end be the same!

The historians of our saint relate that on one of the occasions above
alluded to, when her only resource was to beg for her sick charges, she
went to the Basilica of San Lorenzo without the walls, where was the
station of the day, and seated herself amongst the crowd of beggars who,
according to custom, were there assembled. From the rising of the sun
to the ringing of the vesper-bell, she sat there side by side with the
lame, the deformed, and the blind. She held out her hand as they did,
gladly enduring, not the semblance, but the reality of that deep
humiliation. When she had received enough wherewith to feed the poor at
home, she rose, and making a sign to her companions, entered the old
basilica, adored the Blessed Sacrament, and then walked back the long
and weary way, blessing God all the while, and rejoicing that she was
counted worthy to suffer for His dear sake.

Those who are well acquainted with Rome, who have frequented the
stations and love the basilicas, and especially that venerable old
pile of San Lorenzo, with its upper and lower chapel, its magnificent
columns, its beautiful pulpit, its wide portico with half-effaced
frescoes, and its rare mosaics--those paintings in stone which time
itself cannot destroy; those whose eyes have gazed with delight on the
glorious view as they approached it, and whose ears are familiar
with the sound of the mendicant's voice, to whom the remembrance of
Francesca's story may have won, perchance, an additional dole,--can form
to themselves with ease a picture of the scene; and when they visit it
again in reality, may be tempted to look out for some saintly face, for
some sweet, angel-like countenance, amongst the sordid and suffering
groups before them, and wonder if ever again such charity as Francesca's
will animate a woman's heart. Not long ago, for a few short years, in
Francesca's city, there was one who bade fair to emulate the virtues
of the dear saint of Rome; but as she was rapidly treading in her
footsteps, and her name was becoming every day more dear to the people
amongst whom she dwelt, death snatched her away. Her memory remains,
and the poor bless it even now. May God grant us such in our own land!
Saints are sorely needed in these busy, restless, money-loving times of
ours; as much as, or more than, in the wild middle ages, or the troubled
centuries that followed.

Francesca possessed a small vineyard near the church of St. Paul without
the walls; and in that time of scarcity, when every little resource had
to be turned to account for the purposes of charity, she used to go
there and gather up into parcels and faggots the long grass and the dry
branches of the vines. When she had collected a certain number of these
packets, she laid them on an ass, and went through the town, stopping at
various poor dwellings to distribute the fruits of her labours. On one
of these occasions her donkey stumbled and fell, and the wood which he
was carrying rolled to a considerable distance. Francesca was looking
about her in considerable embarrassment, not able to lift it up again,
when a Roman nobleman, Paolo Lelli Petrucci, a friend of her husband's,
chanced to pass by. Astonished at seeing her in such a predicament, he
hastened to her assistance; and she received it with as much serenity
and composure as if her occupation had been the most natural thing in
the world.

By this time her virtues were destined to receive a wonderful reward,
and God bestowed upon her the gift of healing to a miraculous degree.
Many a sick person given over by the physicians was restored to health
by the single touch of her hands, or the prayers which she offered up in
their behalf. More than sixty of these cases were well attested at the
time of her canonisation. Francesca was profoundly sensible of the
blessedness of this gift, and grateful for the power it afforded her of
relieving the sufferings of others; but at the same time her humility
prompted her to conceal it as much as possible. She endeavoured to do so
by making up an ointment composed of oil and wax, which she applied
to the sick, whatever their disease might be, in the hope that their
recovery would always be ascribed to its efficacy. But this holy
subterfuge did not always succeed. The physicians analysed the
ointment, and declared that it possessed in itself no healing qualities
whatsoever. One day, upon entering the Hospital of the Trastevere,
Francesca found a poor mule-driver, who had just been carried in, his
foot having been crushed by the fall of a scythe; it was in such a
horrible and hopeless condition, that the surgeons were about to
amputate the limb. Francesca, hearing the cries of the poor wretch, bent
over him, exhorting him to patience; and promising him a speedy relief,
applied some of her ointment to his mangled foot. The wounds instantly
closed, the pain vanished, and a short time after the mule-driver
returned to his customary occupation.

Some days afterwards, the two sisters were returning home from the
basilica of St. John Lateran; and passing by the bridge of Santa Maria,
now the Ponte Rotto, (the very ancient little church opposite to the
Temple of Vesta), they saw extended on the pavement a man whose arm had
been severed by a sword-cut; and unable to procure medical assistance,
the poor wretch had lain there ever since in excruciating tortures,
which had reduced him to the last extremity. Francesca, full of
compassion for his miserable condition, carried him with Vannozza's aid
into her house, put him in a warm bath, cleansed his wound with the
greatest care, and dressed it with her ointment. In a short time, and
without any medical assistance, the severed limb was restored to its
usual position, and a complete recovery ensued.

The bowl in which San Francesca compounded this miraculous remedy is
preserved in the convent of Tor di Specchi. During the novena of the
saint, when the doors are thrown open to crowds of devout persons, it
stands on a table in the entrance-chamber, and is daily filled by the
nuns with fresh sweet-smelling flowers--violets, primroses, anemones,
and the like. The visitor may bear away with him some of these fragrant
remembrances, and cherish them for her sake, the odour of whose virtues
will last as long as the seasons return, and the spring brings back to
our gladdened sight those

 "Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
  Bathed with soft airs and fed with dew."

A still more wonderful miracle than these occurred about this time.
Francesca and her faithful companion Vannozza had been visiting several
churches in that part of Rome which goes by the name of the Rioue de
Monti. Passing before a mean-looking dwelling, they heard the most
heart-rending sobs and cries. Stopping to inquire into the cause of this
despair, they found a mother frantically weeping over the body of a
child, who had died a few hours after its birth without having received
baptism. Francesca gently reproved the woman for the delay which had
endangered her son's salvation; then, taking the little corpse into her
arms, she uttered a fervent prayer, and in a moment gave back the baby
to its mother, fully restored to life and health. She desired her to
have it instantly baptised, and then made her escape, trusting that she
should remain undiscovered; and indeed the woman whose child she had
been the means of saving had never seen her, and wondered awhile if an
angel had visited her in disguise; but the description of her dress,
and the miracle she had worked, convinced all who heard of it that the
visitor was no other than the wife of Lorenzo Ponziano.

Compassionate to others, Francesca was mercilessly severe to herself;
her austerities kept pace with her increasing sanctity. She was enabled
to carry on a mode of life which must have ruined her health had it not
been miraculously sustained. She slept only for two hours, and that on
a narrow plank covered with nothing but a bit of rough carpet. The
continual warfare which she waged against her body brought it more and
more into subjection to the spirit; and her senses were under such
perfect control, that natural repugnances vanished, and the superior
part of the soul reigned supremely over the meaner instincts and
inclinations of the flesh. Such was her spiritual proficiency at the
early age of twenty-nine. CHAPTER VII.

EVANGELISTA APPEARS TO HIS MOTHER-AN ARCHANGEL IS ASSIGNED TO HER AS A
VISIBLE GUARDIAN THROUGHOUT HER LIFE,

EVANGELISTA had been dead about a year. His image was ever present to
his mother's heart; she saw him in spirit at the feet of his Lord.
Never, even in her inmost soul, was she conscious of a wish to recall
him from the heaven he had reached to the earthly home which he had left
desolate; but not for one moment could she forget the child of her love,
or cease to invoke him as a celestial guardian akin to those who had
so long hovered about her path. Her faith and resignation were richly
rewarded. God gave her a sight of her child in heaven, and he was sent
to announce to her one of the most extraordinary favours that was ever
vouchsafed to a daughter of Adam. Francesca was praying one morning in
her oratory, when she became conscious that the little room was suddenly
illuminated in a supernatural manner; a mysterious light shone on every
side, and its radiance seemed to pervade not only her outward senses,
but the inmost depths of her being, and to awaken in her soul a strange
sensation of joy. She raised her eyes, and Evangelista stood before her;
his familiar aspect unchanged, but his features transfigured and beaming
with ineffable splendour.

By his side was another of the same size and height as himself, but
more beautiful still. Francesca's lips move, but in vain she seeks to
articulate; the joy and the terror of that moment are too intense.
Her son draws near to her, and with an angelic expression of love
and respect he bows down his head and salutes her. Then the mother's
feelings predominate; she forgets every thing but his presence, and
opens her arms to him; but it is no earthly form that she encloses
within them, and the glorified body escapes her grasp. And now she gains
courage and addresses him,--in broken accents indeed, but with trembling
eagerness.

"Is it you, indeed? (she cries) O son of my heart! Whence do you come?
who are your companions? what your abode? Angel of God, hast thou
thought of thy mother, of thy poor father? Amidst the joys of Paradise
hast thou remembered earth and its sufferings?"

Evangelista looked up to heaven with an unutterable expression of peace
and of joy; and then, fixing his eyes on his mother, he said, "My abode
is with God; my companions are the angels; our sole occupation the
contemplation of the Divine perfections,--the endless source of all
happiness. Eternally united with God, we have no will but His; and our
peace is as complete as His Being is infinite. He is Himself our joy,
and that joy knows no limits. There are nine choirs of angels in
heaven, and the higher orders of angelic spirits instruct in the Divine
mysteries the less exalted intelligences. If you wish to know my place
amongst them, my mother, learn that God, of His great goodness, has
appointed it in the second choir of angels, and the first hierarchy of
archangels. This my companion is higher than I am in rank, as he is more
bright and fair in aspect. The Divine Majesty has assigned him to you as
a guardian during the remainder of your earthly pilgrimage. Night and
day by your side, he will assist you in every way. Never amidst the joys
of Paradise have I for an instant forgotten you, or any of my loved ones
on earth. I knew you were resigned; but I also knew that your heart
would rejoice at beholding me once more, and God has permitted that I
should thus gladden your eyes. But I have a message for you, my mother.
God asks for Agnese: she may not tarry long with you; her place is ready
in the New Jerusalem. Be of good comfort, nay, rather rejoice that your
children are safely housed in heaven." Evangelista communed a short
while longer with his mother, and then, bidding her tenderly farewell,
disappeared; but the archangel remained, and to the day of her
death was ever present to her sight.

She now understood the sense of the vision that had been sent her at
the time of Agnese's birth. It was not for the cloister, but for
heaven itself, that God claimed her young daughter; and during the few
remaining days of her earthly life she waited upon her with a tenderness
mingled with veneration; looking upon her as one who scarcely belonged
to the rough world she was so soon to leave. And the chosen child of
God, the little maiden on whom the mystic dove had rested in its flight,
soon drooped like a flower in an ungenial air,--soon gave her fond
mother a last kiss and a last smile; and then her gentle spirit went to
seek her brother's kindred soul. They were buried together; and the day
was now come for Francesca, when earthly happiness altogether vanishes,
when life has its duties but has lost all its joys,--and then, what a
lesson is in the story! God's angel henceforward stands visibly by her
side, and never leaves her!

When Evangelista had parted from his mother, she had fallen prostrate
on the ground, and blessed God for His great mercy to her, the most
worthless of sinners, for such she deemed herself; and then, turning
to the angel, who stood near her, she implored him to be her guide and
director; to point out the way she was to tread; to combat with her
against Satan and his ministers; and to teach her every day to become
more like in spirit to his and her Lord. When she left the oratory, the
archangel followed her, and, enveloped in a halo of light, remained
always visible to her, though imperceptible to others. The radiance that
surrounded him was so dazzling, that she could seldom look upon him with
a fixed gaze. At night, and in the most profound darkness, she could
always write and read by the light of that supernatural brightness.
Sometimes, however, when in prayer, or in conference with her director,
or engaged in struggles with the Evil One, she was enabled to see
his form with perfect distinctness, and by Don Antonio's orders thus
described him:--"His stature," she said, "is that of a child of about
nine years old; his aspect full of sweetness and majesty; his eyes
generally turned towards heaven: words cannot describe the divine purity
of that gaze. His brow is always serene; his glances kindle in the soul
the flame of ardent devotion. When I look upon him, I understand the
glory of the angelic nature, and the degraded condition of our own. He
wears a long shining robe, and over it a tunic, either as white as the
lilies of the field, or of the colour of a red rose, or of the hue of
the sky when it is most deeply blue. When he walks by my side, his feet
are never soiled by the mud of the streets or the dust of the road."

Francesca's conduct was now directed in the most infallible manner. By
a special privilege, a companion had been assigned to her from the
heavenly hierarchy; and if she committed any faults, error could not now
be pleaded in excuse. Her actions, her words, and her thoughts, were to
be ever on a par with those of the sinless Being who was to be her guide
throughout her earthly pilgrimage. It was an awful responsibility, a
startling favour; but trusting in God's grace, though fully aware of her
own weakness, she did not shrink from the task. Her greatest wish had
always been to attain a perfect conformity with the Divine Will, and now
this mysterious guidance furnished her with the means of knowing that
Will in its minutest details. In her struggles with the Evil One, the
archangel became her shield of defence; the rays of light which darted
from his brow sent the demons howling on their way. Thus protected, she
feared neither the wiles nor the violence of Satan.

The presence of her heavenly guide was also to Francesca a mirror, in
which she could see reflected every imperfection of her fallen, though
to a great extent renewed, nature. Much as she had discerned, even from
her earliest childhood, of the innate corruption of her heart, yet she
often told her director, that it was only since she had been continually
in the presence of an angelic companion that she had realised its
amount. So that this divine favour, far from exalting her in her own
eyes, served to maintain her in the deepest humility. When she committed
the slightest fault, the angel seemed to disappear; and it was only
after she had carefully examined her conscience, discovered her failing,
lamented and humbly confessed it, that he returned. On the other hand,
when she was only disturbed by a doubt or a scruple, he was wont to
bestow on her a kind look, which dissipated at once her uneasiness. When
he spoke, she used to see his lips move; and a voice of indescribable
sweetness, but which seemed to come from a distance, reached her ears.
His guidance enlightened her chiefly with regard to the difficulty she
felt in submitting to certain cares and obligations which belonged to
her position as mistress and head of a family. She was apt to imagine
that the hours thus employed were lost in God's sight; but her celestial
guardian corrected her judgment on this point, and taught her to discern
the Divine will in every little irksome worldly duty, in every trifling
contradiction, as well as in great trials and on important occasions.
The light of the angelic presence gave her also a marvellous insight
into the thoughts of others. Their sins, their errors, their evil
inclinations, were supernaturally revealed to her, and often caused her
the Keenest sorrow. She was enabled through this gift to bring back to
God many a wandering soul, to frustrate bad designs, and reconcile
the most inveterate enemies. Francesca used sometimes, to say to
Don Antonio, when she requested his permission for some additional
austerities which he hesitated in granting, "Be not afraid, father; the
archangel will not allow me to proceed too far in that course. He always
checks me when I am tempted to transgress the bounds of prudence." And
Don Antonio believed it, for his penitent always spoke the exact truth;
and in the miraculous manner in which she over and over again read his
most secret thoughts, and manifested them to him, he had a pledge of her
veracity, as well as of her extraordinary sanctity.

CHAPTER VIII.

FRANCESCA'S ILLNESS AND RECOVERY--HER VISION OF HELL--RESTORATION OF
TRANQUILLITY III ROME--RETURN OF FRANCESCA'S HUSBAND--HER POWER IN
CONVERTING SINNERS.

Four long years had elapsed, during which Rome had been given up to
dissensions and civil discord, while epidemics of various kinds were
continually succeeding each other, and carrying off many of its
inhabitants. At the opening of the year 1414, Sigismund, king of the
Romans, and John XXIII., had agreed to convene a council at Constance;
and the faithful were beginning to cherish a hope that the schism which
had so long desolated the Church might be drawing to a close. But this
distant prospect of relief was not sufficient to counterbalance
the actual sufferings of the moment; and Francesca beheld with
ever-increasing pain the amount of sin and of misery which filled the
city of her birth. Her exertions, her labours, her bodily and mental
trials, told at last upon her enfeebled frame, and about this time she
fell dangerously ill. Almost all her acquaintances, and even her
own family, fled from her, terrified, it would seem, by the idea of
contagion. Vannozza alone remained, and never left her bed-side. Some
there were who came to visit, but not for the purpose of consoling her;
on the contrary, it was to reproach the dying saint with what they
called her absurd infatuation, which had introduced the plague into her
abode, and endangered her own life, for the sake of a set of worthless
wretches. She listened with her accustomed gentleness, without
attempting to defend herself from the charge. Her soul was perfectly at
peace; she could joyfully accept the death that now appeared inevitable;
she could thank God earnestly that the struggle was past, and
Evangelista and Agnese safely lodged in His arms. She looked forward to
a speedy reunion with these beloved ones; and marked the progress of
her disease as the prisoner watches the process by which his chains
are riven. A few words or love and faith she now and then whispered to
Vannozza; at other times she remained absorbed in divine contemplation.
Overshadowed by an angel's wing, calm in the midst of severe suffering,
she performed her habitual devotions in as far as her strength
permitted, and only gave up painful penances by the express order of her
director. She who had healed so many sick persons cared not to be healed
herself.

It was not, however, God's will that she should die so soon. After
passing several months in prolonged sufferings, her health was suddenly
restored. It was at this period of her life that she had the awful and
detailed visions of hell which have remained on record, and in which
many salutary and fearful lessons are conveyed. She was rapt in spirit,
and carried through the realms of endless woe. What was once chosen by
the genius of man as a theme for its highest poetic effort--a journey
through "the mournful city, amongst that lost people" [Footnote: Per
me si va nella cittá dolente, Per me si va tra la perduta gente."--DANTE.]
--was given to the saint in mystic trance to accomplish. An angel led
her through these terrific scenes; and an intuitive perception was given
to her of the various sufferings of the condemned souls. So deep was the
impression which this tremendous vision left on Francesca's soul, that
never afterwards, as long as she lived, could she speak of it without
tears and trembling; and she would often emphatically warn those persons
who, trusting too implicitly to God's mercy, forgot in their reckless
security the terrors of His justice. Some of the fresco paintings in the
convent of Tor di Specchi represent this vision, and are visible to this
day. The Pope John XXIII., and Sigismund, king of the Romans, had at
last succeeded in forming a league, with the object of delivering Italy
from the intolerable yoke of Ladislas, king of Naples. This tyrant
had assembled a numerous army, and was marching upon Bologna; but the
measure of his iniquities was now full, and the hand of death arrested
him on his way. An illness, occasioned by his incredible excesses,
seized him between Nurni and Perugia, and he died on the 5th of August,
1414. The sovereign Pontiff, free from the terrors which this fierce
usurper had inspired, and yielding to the importunities of the cardinal,
set out for Constance, where he was to meet the Emperor Sigismund. This
same Council of Constance was eventually to be the means of making void
his election, and of ending the great schism of the West, by placing in
the chair of St. Peter the illustrious Pontiff Martin V. The death of
Ladislas restored peace to the states of the Church, and in particular
to the city of Rome. With the cessation of civil broils the famine
disappeared; and with it the grievous pestilence that had so long
accompanied it. The fields were cultivated once more; the peasants
gradually returned to their farms; the flocks grazed unmolested in the
green pastures of the Campagna; and the whilom deserted provinces smiled
again under the influence of returning prosperity.

The sufferings of the Ponziani were also at an end. They were recalled
from banishment, and their property was restored. Lorenzo and his
son--now his only son--Baptista. returned to their home, and to the
wife and mother they had so longed to behold again. But mixed with
sorrow was the cup of joy which that hour seemed to offer. Lorenzo,
who a few years back was in the prime of life--strong, healthy, and
energetic,--he who had met every foe and every trial without shrinking,
was now broken by long sufferings; aged more through exile and grief
than through years. We are told that when he entered his palace and
looked upon his wife, deep sobs shook his breast, and he burst into an
agony of tears. The two beautiful children which he had left by her
side, where were they? Gone! never to gladden his eyes again, or make
music in his home by the sound of their sweet voices. And Francesca
herself, pale with recent illness, spent with ceaseless labours, she
stood before him the perfect picture of a woman and a saint, with the
divine expression of her beloved face unchanged; but how changed in
form, in bloom, in brightness, in every thing but that beauty which
holiness gives and time cannot efface!

Long and bitterly he wept, and Francesca gently consoled him. She told
him how Evangelista had appeared to her; how their children were only
gone before them, companions now of those angels they had so resembled
upon earth. She whispered to him that one of these was ever at her side;
and when he looked upon her, and remembered all she had been to him,
doubtless he found it easy to believe. Taught by adversity, more than
ever influenced by his admirable wife, Lorenzo henceforward adopted a
more thoroughly Christian mode of life than he had hitherto followed.
Not content with praising her virtues, he sought to imitate them, and
practised all the duties of religion with the utmost strictness. On
one point alone his conduct was inconsistent with the principles he
professed, and this was, while it lasted, a source of keen anxiety to
Francesca. There was a Roman nobleman who, several years before, had
grievously offended the lord of Ponziano, and with whom he absolutely
refused to be reconciled. This had formerly been, and was again after
his return, an occasion of scandal to many. The more eminent were his
virtues, the higher his religious profession, the more glaring appeared
such an evident inconsistency. Francesca herself was blamed for it;
and people used to wonder that she who was so often successful in
reconciling strangers and promoting peace in families, had not the power
of allaying an enmity discreditable to her husband and at variance with
the dictates of religion. At last, however, by dint of patience and
gentleness, she accomplished what had seemed for a long time a hopeless
endeavour. The hearts of both parties were touched with remorse.
Lorenzo, who was the aggrieved party, granted his enemy a full and free
pardon, and a perfect reconciliation ensued. This triumph over himself
on the one point where the stubborn natural will had so long held out,
resulted, as is almost always the case, in a rapid advance towards
perfection.

Lorenzo, from this time forth, withdrew more and more from public life,
refused those posts of honour and of responsibility which a friendly
government pressed upon him, and surrendered himself almost entirely
to the duties and exercises of a strictly religious life. In his
conversations with his wife, he daily gained a deeper insight into the
secrets of the spiritual life. Far from complaining of the amount of
money which she spent in charity, of the existence of an hospital within
the walls of his palace, of her various and laborious works of mercy, or
of the length of time which she spent in prayer, he renewed his request
that she would, in every respect, follow what seemed to her the will of
God, and the most perfect manner of life. Francesca gratefully complied
with this his desire. She watched more strictly than ever over the
conduct of those committed to her charge, and recommended to them by
her example even more than by her precepts an exact observance of the
commandments of God and of the Church. What money was exclusively her
own, she regularly divided into two parts: with one-half she bought food
for the poor, with the other clothing and medicine for the sick. Her own
dress cost her next to nothing; she continued to wear her old green gown
patched-up with any odd bits of cloth that fell in her way. Almost every
day she went to her vineyard and gathered wood for the faggots which
she gave away on her return. Her relations, her friends, and even her
servants, were annoyed at her employing herself in such labour, and
bitterly complained of the humiliation it occasioned them to meet her
so meanly dressed and so meanly occupied. Lorenzo did not share those
feelings; on the contrary, he used to look upon her on these occasions
with an increase of affection and veneration; and supported by his
approval, by the approbation of her director, and the dictates of her
own conscience, she cared little for the comments of others.

The kind of apostolate which by this time she exercised in Rome was very
remarkable; and her power over men's minds and hearts scarcely short of
miraculous. There was a subduing charm, an irresistible influence in her
words and in her manner, which told on every variety of persons.
The expression of her countenance, the tones of her voice, her mere
presence, worked wonders in effecting conversions, and in animating to
virtue those whom she approached. Her gift of reading the thoughts of
others, which had increased ever since the archangel had become her
companion, enabled her in several instances to bring about conversions,
several of which are related at length by her biographers.

Amongst them was that of a young woman who was lying dangerously ill in
one of the hospitals of the city. Francesca had been distributing food
to the sick, and was then attending the death-bed of a young man, who
was about to receive the last Sacraments, when a piercing cry from one
of the adjoining wards reached her ears. She hastened to the spot, and
found a young woman stretched on one of the narrow beds, and dying in
all the agonies of despair. No sooner had she looked upon the poor
creature than her dreadful history was supernaturally revealed to her.
She had some time before had an illegitimate child, and, under the
pressure of shame and terror, had destroyed it. The consciousness of
this crime was driving her to despair, and she had not courage to
confess it. But now words were whispered in her ear, which went
straight to the point on which the awful straggle turned; which spoke
of the horrible misery of dying impenitent and unabsolved, and of the
boundless mercy which has provided a remedy for the deepest stains
of sin, the blood of Jesus applied to the soul by the grace of the
Sacrament. For a long time the poor creature resisted, turned her head
away, and refused to be comforted. But when Francesca, in still more
pressing terms, alluded to the intolerable burden of an unacknowledged
crime, of the life-giving humiliation of a sincere confession, of the
dire confusion of an unforgiven soul on the day of Judgment; of the love
of Jesus, of the tenderness of Mary, of the indulgence of the Church,
the sweetness of pardon, the peace of reconciliation; then the stubborn
heart yielded, the seared spirit was softened. Bursting into tears, the
dying sufferer exclaimed, "A priest! a priest!" and one was at hand at
the first call of contrition, and answered that expiring cry, as Matthew
did the royal prophet's confession: "The Lord forgives; thou shalt not
perish." And shortly after in Francesca's arms the pardoned sinner
breathed her last.

About the same time, Francesca was the means of converting one who
would doubtless have turned with contempt from the poor criminal on the
hospital-bed with horror, from the guilty destroyer of her own child,
and deemed that to breathe the same air as such a wretch was in itself
contamination. And yet, in God's right, Gentilezza may have been as,
or perhaps more guilty than the sorely-tempted, unprotected, miserable
being, who in weakness first, and then in terror, almost in madness,
had rushed into crime; for she was rich, noble, and beautiful; had been
nursed in pomp and pleasure; hunger had never tempted, and scorn never
pursued her. Her life had been one continued scene of amusement and of
splendour. She cared for nothing but the homage of men, the incense of
admiration, the intoxication of pleasure. There was not a duty that she
did not neglect, nor one sacred obligation that she felt herself bound
to observe. We are not told that she committed what men call crimes; but
her husband she treated with open contempt, and ridiculed him on
account of his attachment to religious duties; her children she
altogether neglected, and abandoned them to the care of servants, while
her days and nights were devoted to amusements and frivolities of every
description. Several of the Roman ladies, who used to be her companions,
had been induced, by Francesca's example and exhortation, to give up
a life of dissipation, and adopt one better befitting the Christian
profession; but Gentilezza laughed at her and at them, and used to say,
with insolent derision, that she had no vocation for wearing rags and
carrying faggots. Perfectly indifferent to the ridicule with which she
sought to cover her, Francesca prayed incessantly for the vain and
haughty woman, who seemed beyond the reach of reproach or of persuasion.
One day, however, moved by a prophetic impulse, she thus addressed her:
"You scorn my warnings, Gentilezza; you laugh at the advice of your
confessor. But remember that God is powerful, and not to be mocked with
impunity. The day is at hand when you will rue the stubbornness of your
heart."

A few days afterwards, as Gentilezza, who was with child at the time,
was descending the stairs of her palace, her foot slipped, and she fell
headlong to the bottom. Her servants raised her in their arms, and found
her all but dead. The physicians, who were summoned in haste, judged
unfavourably of her case, and pronounced that her child must infallibly
have been killed by the fall. The wretched woman burst into tears, but
it was not so much her own danger, or the death of her infant which she
deplored, as the ruin of her beauty, which had been her pride and her
snare. Her features had been so injured by this accident, that her face
was completely disfigured, and with rebellious anger she wept over her
lost loveliness. Francesca, upon hearing of this event, hurried to the
spot, and nursed the suffering woman with the tenderest care. With the
utmost kindness she reminded her of the duties she had neglected, and of
the means of grace she had despised, and exhorted her to recognise the
hand of a merciful God in the chastisement she had received. She spoke
to her of her husband, of her children, of the true and sweet vocations
of a wife and a mother, of the transitory nature of all earthly
enjoyments; and into the heart subdued by pain and disappointment her
words made their way. It was as if scales had fallen from the eyes of
the sufferer. "God is just," she exclaimed at last; "I deserved even
a greater punishment than I have met with. Pray for me, Francesca
Ponziano; pray for me; and oh, hear me promise, that if my life is
spared, I will give up all my evil ways, and henceforward become a
Christian wife and a Christian mother; so help me God, whom I have so
grievously offended!" Francesca bent over her and embraced her; she saw
that her repentance was sincere, and bade her be of good comfort,
and that her penitence would be accepted. And so it turned out; for
Gentilezza was safely delivered of a healthy little girl, and in time
recovered not only her health but the beauty which she had once turned
to such bad account; and, while faithful to her promise, she ceased to
abuse the gifts of God, and devoted herself to the diligent performance
of her duties, became a chosen friend of Francesca's, and one of the
most pious and exemplary matrons in Rome.

Among the relatives of the saint, there was a young man whose name was
Giovanni Antonio Lorenzi, whose temper was fierce and violent in the
extreme. Having been, as he considered, insulted by another Roman
nobleman, he vowed that he would take his life, and resolved to have him
assassinated. Francesca's angel revealed to her his criminal design,
which was as yet confined to his own breast. She instantly sent for the
object of his enmity, and charged him, as he valued his existence,
not to leave his own house for a certain number of days; and without
informing him of the reason, obtained his promise to that effect. In the
mean time she disclosed to Lorenzi her knowledge of his guilty project,
and induced him to abandon all idea of revenge. Her influence over
Angelo Savelli, on a similar occasion, was still more remarkable. He had
quarrelled with a young man of his acquaintance, and a duel had ensued,
in which he had been severely wounded. His anger was excessive; he did
nothing but threaten and curse his adversary. Neither his own family nor
that of his foe could succeed in appeasing him, and he was dying with
vengeance in his heart, and accents of rage on his lips. Francesca was
informed of his condition, and went, straightway to his bed-side. She
had no sooner uttered a few words, than he bade her bring his enemy to
him, that he might forgive and embrace him. He was himself astonished
at the change thus wrought by her presence, and declared that the Holy
Spirit had moved him by her means. He received the last Sacrament with
the best dispositions, and died soon after, full of peace and hope, and
repeatedly assured his family that God, in mercy to his soul, had sent
the wife of Ponziano to save him from the ruin which was so nearly
overtaking him.

One more instance amongst many of Francesca's powers of persuasion may
be adduced, in addition to the preceding. She was, as we have seen,
a constant attendant at the church of Santa Maria Nuova, where her
confessor, Don Antonio Savello officiated. It so happened that one of
the monks of his order, Don Ippolito, who subsequently played a part in
the history of the saint, and who had been now residing ten years in
the convent, was about this time appointed to the office of sacristan,
although he had previously filled with distinction divers important
functions in the monastery. He had accepted this appointment out of
obedience and humility of spirit; but after a while the devil sorely
tempted him to regret having done so; to repine at what he began to
consider as an act of tyranny and injustice; and these reflections,
gradually indulged in, made sad havoc of his peace of mind. An
oppressive melancholy beset him; and at last he came to the resolution
of abandoning his habit and the monastery, if the obnoxious
appointment were not cancelled. But one day that he had been invoking
Mary, our Lady of good counsel, he felt a sudden inspiration to go and
communicate to Francesca his discontent, his restlessness, and the
resolution he had formed. She listened attentively to his statement, and
then quietly addressed to him some questions which placed the subject
in its true light. She asked him with what purpose he had entered the
religious state; whom he had intended to serve in doing so; which he
preferred, the God who descends and dwells on the altar, or the servants
who wait upon Him elsewhere? Which was the highest post, that of
watching over the sanctuary, in company with the angels, or of
ministering to men, however holy and eminent they might be, as would be
his lot in another office? The wisdom and simplicity of this answer
went straight to Don Ippolito's heart. He instantly acquiesced in its
justice, and went directly to confession. With earnest benevolence he
betook himself to the duties of his at once humble and exalted office,
edified all his brethren by his unfeigned humility, and became in time
the model of his order. He was afterwards successively named sub-prior,
and then prior of the monastery of Santa Maria Nuova; and was later the
associate and support of Francesca in the foundation of her congregation
of the Noble Oblates of Tor di Specchi.




CHAPTER IX.

FRESH SUPERNATURAL EVENTS IN FRANCESCA'S HISTORY--HER OBEDIENCE TO HER
HUSBAND AND TO HER CONFESSOR REWARDED BY TWO MIRACLES--MARRIAGE OF HER
SON, AND ILL CONDUCT OF HIS WIFE--HER CONVERSION THROUGH FRANCESCA'S
PRAYERS--FRESH MIRACLES WORKED BY FRANCESCA.

Francesca's obedience to her director in spiritual matters, and to her
husband in other respects, continued to be exemplary. In both instances
she received a miraculous proof that God regarded with especial favour
that humble submission of spirit in one whom He endowed with such
marvellous gifts. The story of these miracles mighht well furnish a
subject to a painter or a poet. One day that she and Vannozza had asked
permission to visit the shrine of Santa Croce in Gierusalemme, Don
Antonio had given them leave to do so; on condition that, as an exercise
of self-control, and a test of their obedience, they should walk there
and back without once raising their eyes to look about them. He wished
them to employ all the time of that long walk in mental prayer and
meditation. They proceeded on their way without interruption, till, on
approaching the hospital adjoining the church of St. John of Lateran, a
sudden rush of people overtook them, and sounds of terror were heard on
every side. A bull had escaped from its leaders, and driven frantic by
the cries of the multitude, it was dashing savagely along. Francesca and
Vannozza stood directly in his path. Loud shouts warned them to get
out of the way; but, faithful to the obedience they had received, and
probably inwardly assured that they would be protected against the
danger, whatever it was, they advanced calm and unmoved with their eyes
fixed on the ground. The bystanders, who were cowering at a distance,
shuddered; for it seemed that the next moment must see them under the
feet of the bellowing animal. But no; the same influence that tamed the
lions in Daniel's den was at work with the savage beast. At sight of the
two women, it suddenly stopped in its course, became perfectly tranquil,
stood still while they passed, and then resumed its flight; while they
proceeded to the church without having experienced the slightest emotion
of fear. There is an ancient saying, that a wild beast is appeased by
the sight of a maiden in her purity; and there can be no doubt that
those saints who have regained in some measure, by mortification,
penance, and heroic virtue, the purity of man's original nature, have
at the same time recovered, in a certain degree, the power which Adam
possessed over the animal creation. It is a fact of frequent occurrence
in their lives, that mysterious homage paid to them by the wild
inhabitants of the desert, or the gentle denizens of the grave. St.
Francis of Assisi, and St. Rose of Lima, amongst others, were singularly
endowed with this gift. There are few more touching thoughts, or any
better calculated to make us understand the true character of sanctity,
and the gradual restoration of a fallen nature to one akin to that of
the angels.

The other miracle was one attested by Vannozza, who witnessed its
occurrence. Francesca devoted all her leisure moments to prayer, but
never allowed her delight in spiritual exercises to interfere with her
duty as a wife. Her attention to Lorenzo's slightest wants and wishes
was unceasing. She never complained of any amount of interruption or of
trouble which his claims upon her time might occasion. One day that she
was reciting in her room the office of the Blessed Virgin, he sent for
her. Instantly rising from her knees, she obeyed his summons. When she
had performed the trifling service he required, she returned to her
prayers. Four successive times, for the most insignificant of purposes,
she was sent for: each time, with unwearied good humour, she complied,
and resumed her devotions without a shadow of discontent or annoyance.
On resuming her book the last time that this occurred, great was her
astonishment in finding the antiphon, which she had four times begun and
four times left unfinished, written in letters of gold. Vannozza, who
was present, witnessed the miracle; and the archangel whispered to
Francesca, "Thus the Lord rewards the virtue of obedience." The gilded
letters remained in the book to the day of her death.

Her prayers were frequent; her fervour in proportion. Beginning with the
"Our Father" and the "Hail Mary," it was her practice to recite them
slowly, and to ponder on each word as she pronounced it. The Office of
the Blessed Virgin she repeated daily at the appointed hours, and almost
always on her knees; the Rosary also, and a great number of psalms
besides, as well as various devotions for the holy souls in purgatory.
As to mental prayer, her whole life was one continued orison; ever in
communion with God, she never lost the sense of His presence. From this
time forward (she was now thirty-two years old), her life grew more and
more supernatural. The mystical wonders that have manifested themselves
in so many saints were displayed in her to an eminent degree. When
she approached the tribunal of penance, but, above all, in going to
communion, her body sometimes emitted a fragrant odour, and a halo of
light surrounded her head. Often and often, after receiving the Bread of
Life, she fell into a long ecstasy, and for hours remained motionless,
and wrapt up in silent contemplation, unable to move from the spot but
at the command of her director; the virtue of obedience overcoming
even the mystical insensibility to all outward objects. Her intimate
intercourse with heaven during those moments; the prophecies which she
uttered; the manner in which distant and future occurrences were made
manifest to her spiritual perceptions, testified to the supernatural
nature of these ecstasies. An intimate union established itself between
her and the objects of her incessant contemplation. When she meditated
on the glorious mysteries, on the triumphs of Mary, or the bliss of the
angelic spirits, an intense joy beamed in her face, and pervaded her
whole person. When, on the other hand, she mused on the Passion of our
Lord, or on the sorrows of His Mother, the whole expression of her face
was changed, and bore the impress of an unutterable woe; and even by
physical pains she partook in a measure of the sufferings of her God.
The anxious torments of the Passion were rehearsed as it were in her
body; and ere long a wound in her side manifested one of the most
astonishing but indubitably established instances of the real though
mystical share which some of the saints have had in the life-giving
agonies of the Lord. None but Vannozza, who used to dress that touching
and awful wound, and Don Antonio, to whom she revealed it in confession,
were acquainted with this extraordinary token of union between the
crucified Redeemer and His favoured servant. She suffered intense pain
while it lasted, but it was a joyful suffering. Love made it precious
to her. She had desired to drink of His cup, and be baptised with His
baptism; and He destined her one day to sit at His side and share His
glory. She had drunk to the dregs the cup of earthly sorrow; the anguish
of bereavement, the desolation of loneliness, the torments of fear, the
pangs of sickness and poverty. And now the most mysterious sufferings
fell to her lot, of a nature too sacred for common mention, for man's
investigation, but not the less real and true than the others. The
relief was as miraculous as the infliction. In a vision she saw herself
transported into the cave of Bethlehem, and into the presence of the
Infant Jesus and of His Mother. With a sweet smile, the Blessed Virgin
bade Francesca discover the wound which love had made, and then with
water that flowed from the rock, she washed her side, and dismissed
her. When her ecstasy was over, she found that the miraculous wound was
perfectly healed.

It was at this time that she predicted in the most positive manner, and
when appearances were all against such a result, that the papal schism
was about to end. The Council of Constance was sitting, and new
difficulties and conflicts continually arose. War was on the point of
bursting out again, and every body trembling at the thought of fresh
disasters. Contrary, however, to all expectations, the last weeks of the
year 1415 saw the conclusion of the schism. The assembled fathers, with
a courage that none had foreseen, and indifferent to the threats of
Frederick of Austria on the one side, and of the King of France on the
other, who were each advocating the cause of an anti-pope,--the former
supporting John XXIII., the latter Benedict XIII.,--they deposed these
two usurpers, obliged Gregory XII. to renounce his pretensions also,
and on the 11th of November unanimously elected Otto Colonna, Cardinal
Deacon of St. George in Velabro, who took the name of Martin V.; and
by his virtues and his talents succeeded in restoring: peace to Rome
itself, and to the whole Catholic world. It was generally supposed, even
during her lifetime, and much more after her death, that Francesca's
prayers, her tears and her sufferings, had accelerated that blessed
event, and drawn down the mercy of God on His afflicted Church.

The son of Lorenzo and Francesca. Baptista Ponziano, had now arrived at
the age of eighteen, and was considered the most promising of the young
Roman noblemen. The excellent education he had received was bearing its
fruits. In appearance and in manners, in talents and in character, he
was equally distinguished. Lorenzo, anxious to perpetuate his family,
and secure heirs to his large possessions, pressed his son to marry. It
was with the greatest satisfaction that Francesca seconded his wishes.
She longed to give up to a daughter-in-law the management of domestic
affairs, and to be more free to devote her time to religious and
charitable employments. The young person on whom the choice of Baptista
and of his parents fell was Mobilia, a maiden of whom it is recorded
that she was of noble birth and of singular beauty, but her family
name is not mentioned. Immediately upon her marriage, according to the
continental custom of the time, the bride came to reside under the same
roof as her father and mother-in-law. She was received as a beloved
daughter by Francesca and Vannozza; but she neither returned their
affection nor appeared sensible of their kindness. Brought up by an
excellent mother in a very strict manner and entire seclusion, her head
was completely turned at suddenly finding herself her own mistress:
adored by her husband, furnished with the most ample means of gratifying
all her fancies, she was bent on making up for the somewhat austere life
she had led as a young girl, and gave no thought to any thing but her
beauty, her dress, and all the amusements within her reach. Wholly
inexperienced, she declined to ask or to receive advice, and chose in
every respect to be guided by her inclinations alone. Imperious with
her equals, haughty with her superiors, she gave herself all the
airs imaginable, and treated her mother-in-law with the most supreme
contempt, hardly paying her more attention than if she had been the
lowest menial in the house. In the gay societies which she frequented,
it was her favourite amusement to turn Francesca into ridicule, to
mimic her manners and her style of conversation; and she often declared
herself perfectly ashamed of being related to a person so totally
ignorant of the ways of the world. "How can one feel any respect," she
used to ask, "for a person who thinks of nothing but the poor, dresses
as one of them, and goes about the streets carrying bread, wood, and old
clothes?" It was not that Mobilia's disposition was absolutely bad; on
the contrary, she was naturally sweet-tempered; but never having been
left before to her own management, and tasting for the first time the
exciting pleasures of the world, the contrast which her mother-in-law's
appearance, manners, and whole mode of life presented to that which
seemed to her so attractive, irritated her beyond measure, till at last
her dislike amounted to aversion; she could hardly endure Francesca
in her sight. Vain were the remonstrances of her husband and of her
father-in-law, vain their entreaties and their reproofs; unavailing also
proved the interference of some mutual friends, who sought to convince
her of the culpability of her conduct, and to persuade her that she was
bound to show Baptista's mother at least the attentions of ordinary
civility. The headstrong young woman persisted in exhibiting the utmost
contempt for her. The Saint endured all her frowardness with unvarying
gentleness and patience, never uttering a sharp or unkind word in
return, and spending long hours in prayer that the heart so closed
against her, and so given up to the world, might through God's mercy be
softened and changed. One day, when she was renewing these petitions
with more than common fervour, she heard the following words distinctly
pronounced in her hearing: "Why do you grieve, Francesca? and why is
your soul disquieted? Nothing takes place without My permission, and all
things work together for the good of those who love Me." And her trial
was even then about to end. It happened a few days afterwards, when all
the inhabitants of the palace were assembled round the fire in the hall
(for it was in the winter season), that Mobilia began as usual to attack
her mother-in-law, and to turn her mode of life into ridicule, with even
greater bitterness than usual; and turning to her husband and to his
father, she exclaimed impatiently that she could not understand how they
allowed her to follow her mean and degrading pursuits, to mix with the
refuse of the rabble, and draw down upon the whole family not only
merited disgrace, but intolerable inconveniences. She was going on in
this way, and speaking with great violence, when all of a sudden she
turned as pale as death, a fit of trembling came over her, and in a
moment she fell back senseless. Francesca and Vannozza carried her to
her bed, where, recovering her consciousness, she was seized with most
acute pains. The intensity of her sufferings drew from her the most
piteous cries. Then her conscience was roused; then, as if suddenly
awakened to a sense of the enormity of her conduct, with a faltering
voice she murmured: "My pride! my dreadful pride!" Francesca bent over
her gently, entreated her to bear her sufferings patiently, assured her
they would soon subside. Then Mobilia burst into an agony of tears, and
exclaimed before all the bystanders, "They will subside, my dear mother,
if you ask it of God; but I have deserved more, much more, by my
horrible behaviour to you. Forgive me, dear mother; pray for me. I
acknowledge my fault. Henceforward, if God spares my life, your daughter
will be to you the most loving, the most obedient of handmaids. Take me
in your arms, mother, and bless your child." Francesca pressed to her
bosom the beautiful young creature in whom such a change had been
suddenly wrought, and while she fervently blessed her, Mobilia felt that
all her pains had left her.

From that day forward the whole tone of her mind was altered; her
conversion was complete. Francesca became to her an object of the most
affectionate veneration; she consulted her about all her actions, and
communicated to her her most secret thoughts. Utterly despising the
vanities of the world which had led her astray, she adopted her views
and opinions, and set entirely at naught the seductions of worldly
grandeur. The sanctity of Francesca was now so evident to her that she
began to watch her actions, her words, every detail of her life, with a
mixture of awe and of interest; and kept a record in writing of all that
she observed, and of the miraculous occurrences which were so often
taking place through her instrumentality, as well as in her own person.
The forementioned particulars she attested upon oath after the Saint's
death, when the depositions were taken which served at a later period
for the process of her canonisation. The most intimate friendship
established itself between Baptista's wife and his mother; nothing
could exceed the devoted and affectionate reverence of the one, or the
tenderness with which it was repaid by the other. Francesca, with the
most watchful love, attended to Mobilia's slightest wants or wishes:
nursed her assiduously in her confinements, and bestowed upon her
grandchildren the same cares that she had lavished on her own children.
It was a great relief to her that Mobilia, who was now only occupied
with her duties, assumed at her request the management of the house, and
the regulation of all domestic affairs. She was thus enabled to devote
herself more unreservedly to the service of the poor and of the
hospitals. The hospital which she visited most constantly was that which
her father-in-law had founded near the Chiesa del Salvatore, called at a
later period Santa Maria in Cappella. The miracles wrought by the laying
on of her hands became more numerous than ever, and her fame increased
in proportion. The degree in which her assistance was sought, her
prayers implored, and the reputation of her sanctity extended, was
painful to her humility; but her supernatural gifts were too evident to
be concealed from others or from herself, and there only remained to her
to humble herself more deeply at the feet of the God who thus showed
forth His power in one whom she deemed the most worthless of His
creatures.

A great work was preparing for her hand to do; the first stone of a
spiritual building was to be laid; she was growing ripe for the work;
and God was drawing men's eyes upon her with wonder and with awe, that
when that day came they might listen to her voice. The warnings which
she gave to persons threatened by secret dangers were innumerable; her
insight into the condition of their souls marvellous. One day she sends
word to her confessor that he will be "sent for on the following night
to attend a sick person, but that he must on no account leave his
house;" and it turns out that assassins were lying in wait for him in
the street, and that the pretended sick man was a lure to draw him out.
Another time a youth of sixteen, Jacopo Vincenzo, is lying dangerously
ill in the Piazza Campitelli. His mother hastens to the Saint, who
smiles when she enters the room, and bids her go in peace, for her son
has recovered; and on her return she finds him in perfect health. She
sees a priest at the altar, and he appears to her sight as if covered
with a frightful leprosy. By her confessor's order she relates her
vision to the object of it; and, confounded and amazed, the unhappy
man acknowledges that he was celebrating in a state of mortal sin. He
repents, confesses, and amends his life. Two men pay a visit together
to the Ponziano Palace; one is the nephew of Vannozza, a pious and
exemplary priest; the other a young man of twenty, whom he has adopted.
Anger is working in the bosom of the youth; he has suffered from his
benefactor some imaginary wrong, and he is planning his revenge, and
is about to utter a calumny which will affect his character. Francesca
takes him aside: what can she know of what is passing in his soul: how
read what has not been revealed to any human creature? She tells him
what he designs, and awakens him to a sense of his ingratitude, he no
sooner has left the house than, falling at the feet of his companion,
he confesses to him his crime, and implores his forgiveness. Cecca
Clarelli, a relation of the Ponziani, is delivered of a little girl in
such apparent good health that no one thinks of baptising her; a grand
ceremony for the purpose is preparing in a neighbouring church, to
take place the following day; but in the middle of the night Francesca
arrives, and entreats that the child may be instantly baptised. The
parents and the priest object, but the Saint is urgent; she will take no
denial; with reluctance her request is complied with, and no sooner has
the sacrament been conferred than the infant expires. A child of the
same parents, a lovely little girl, is dumb; she is four years old,
and not a single word has she ever pronounced. Andreozzo, her father,
entreats his wife to carry her to the Saint, and implore her assistance.
Francesca's humility cannot endure this direct appeal, and she tries to
put them off; but, deeply affected by their tears, she at last touches
with her finger the tongue of the little Camilla, and says, "Hope every
thing from the mercy of God; it is as boundless as His power." The
parents depart full of faith and comfort; and ere they reach their
house, the child has uttered with perfect distinctness the blessed names
of Jesus and Mary; and from that day forward acquires and retains the
power of speech.

No wonder that the name of Francesca grows every day more famous, and
that she is every day more dear to the people amongst whom she dwells;
that hearts are subdued, sinners reclaimed, mourners consoled by the
sight of her blessed face, by the sweet sound of her voice. Many rise
about her and call her blessed; but children, and more especially her own
spiritual children, are soon to call her mother. A new epoch is now at
hand in her career. God had placed in her heart many years ago a hope
which she had nursed in secret, and watered with her tears, and fostered
by her prayers. Never impatient, never beforehand with God's providence,
she waited: His time was she knew to be her time; His will was the
passion of her heart, her end, her rule, and God had made her will His,
and brought about by slow degrees its accomplishment. Permission to
labour first,--the result far distant, but clear, the vision of that
result, when once He had said to her, "Begin and work." To tarry
patiently for that signal, to obey it unhesitatingly when once given, is
the rule of the saints. How marvellous is their instinct! how accordant
their practice! First, the hidden life, the common life; the silence of
the house of Nazareth; the carpenter's shop; the marriage-feast, it may
be, for some; and at last, "the hour is come," and the true work for
which they are sent into the world has to be done, in the desert or in
the cloister, in the temple or in the market-place, on Mount Thabor or
on Mount Calvary; and the martyr or the confessor, the founder or the
reformer of a religious order, comes forth, and in an instant, or in a
few years, performs a work at which earth wonders and angels rejoice.




CHAPTER X.

FRANCESCA LAYS THE FOUNDATION OF HER FUTURE CONGREGATION--HER
PILGRIMAGE TO ASSISI.

LORENZO PONZIANO'S admiration and affection for his wife had gone on
increasing with advancing years; the perfection of her life, and
the miracles he had so often seen her perform, inspired him with an
unbounded reverence. His continual prayer, the ardent desire of his
heart, was to have her by his side as his guide and his guardian angel
during the remainder of his life and at the hour of his death. Perhaps
it was to win, as it were, from Providence the favour he so earnestly
implored, that he resolved in no way to be a clog on her actions, or an
obstacle in the way of God's designs upon her. Taking her aside one day,
he spoke to her with the greatest affection, and offered to release her
from all the obligations imposed by the state of marriage, to allow her
the fullest liberty of action and the most absolute control over her own
person, her own time, and her own conduct, on one only condition,--that
she would promise never to cease to inhabit his house, and to guide
him in the way in which her example had hitherto led him. Francesca,
profoundly touched by his kindness, did not hesitate to give this
promise. She accepted his proposal joyfully and gratefully, in so much
as it conduced to the accomplishment of God's will and of His ulterior
designs upon her; but she continued to devote herself to her excellent
husband, and with the most attentive solicitude to render him every
service in her power. He was now in very declining health, and she
rendered him by day and by night all the cares of the tenderest nurse.
The religious life, the natural complement of such a course as hers had
been, often formed the subject of her meditations; and God, who destined
her to be the foundress of a new congregation of pious women, suggested
to her at this time the first steps towards its accomplishment.

It will be remembered that from her childhood upward she had been used
to frequent the church of Santa Maria Nuova, on the Foro Romano; her
mother had done so before her, and had intrusted her to the spiritual
direction of one of the most eminent members of the order by whom that
church was served. Santa Maria Nuova is one of the oldest churches in
Rome. It had been destroyed and rebuilt in the eighth century; and in
1352 had been given up to the Olivetan monks of St. Benedict. As the
congregation which Francesca instituted was originally formed on the
model, and aggregated to that of the religions of Mount Olivet, it will
not be irrelevant to give some account of their origin and the life of
their illustrious founder.

Bernard Ptolomei or Tolomei, who was supposed to be descended from the
Ptolemies of Egypt, was born in 1272. Distinguished by his precocious
abilities, he became, at the early age of twenty-two, chief-magistrate
(_gonfaloniere_) of his native town, Sienna; and at twenty-five
attained to the dignity of doge. Soon after he was suddenly struck with
blindness, and the material darkness in which he found himself involved
opened his mental sight to the light of religious truth. He turned with
his whole heart to God, and irrevocably devoted himself to His
service and to a life of austerity and meditation. The Blessed Virgin
miraculously restored his sight, and his purpose stood firm. Dividing
his fortune into two equal parts, he bestowed one half on the poor, and
the other to the foundation of pious institutions. With a few companions
he retired into the mountainous deserts of Accona, about fifteen miles
from Sienna, where they gave themselves up to a life of asceticism and
prayer, which attracted to their solitude many devout souls from various
parts of the world. Satan, as usual, set his batteries in array against
the new anchorites, and trials of various sorts assailed them in turn.
They were even denounced to Pope John XXII. as persons tainted with
heresy; but Tolomei, with Piccolomini, one of his companions, made their
way to Avignon, and there, in the presence of the sovereign Pontiff,
completely cleared themselves from the calumnious imputation. Their
order was approved, and they returned to Accona, where they took the
name of "Congregation of Mary of Mount Olivet of the Benedictine Order."
This was by the express desire of the Blessed Virgin, who had appeared
to the saint, and enjoined him to adopt the rule of St. Benedict,
promising at the same time her protection to the new order. On the 26th
of March, 1319, the new religious received their habits; and Mount
Accona took the name of Mount Olivet, in honour of the agony of our
Lord. Terrible were the conflicts of the holy founder with the Evil One;
but out of them all he came victorious. His expositions of Scripture
were wonderful, and derived, it was said, from his mystical colloquies
with the archangel St. Michael. The austerity of his life was extreme;
his penances severe and continual. In 1348 St. Benedict appeared to him
and announced the approach of the pestilence which was soon to visit
Italy, and warned him of his own death, which speedily followed. Many
of his disciples had visions of the glorious translation of his soul to
heaven; and numerous miracles wrought at his tomb bore witness to his
sanctity. His monks inhabited the church and the cloisters of Santa
Maria in Dominica, or, as it is more commonly called, in Navicella, from
the rudely-sculptured marble monument that stands on the grass before
its portal, a remnant of bygone days, to which neither history nor
tradition has given a name, but which has itself given one to the
picturesque old church that stands on the brow of the Coelian Hill. As
their numbers afterwards increased, they were put to great inconvenience
by the narrow limits of their abode; and Cardinal Beltorte, titular of
Santa Maria Nuova, obtained for them from Pope Clement VI. possession of
the church of that name. They accepted the gift with joy; for not
only did it owe its origin to the first ages of Christianity, but it
contained many valuable relics; and amongst other treasures one of those
pictures of the Blessed Virgin which tradition has ascribed to St. Luke
the Evangelist; to this day it is venerated in that spot; and those who
kneel at the tomb of St. Francesca Romana, on raising their eyes to the
altar above it behold the sacred image which has been venerated for so
many generations.

Through prosperity and adversity Francesca had never ceased to frequent
that church. At its confessional and at its altars she had been a
constant attendant. Other women, her friends and imitators, had
followed her example; bound by a tender friendship, bent on the same
objects, united by the same love of Jesus and of Mary, often and often
they had been there together, those noble women who had resolved to
glory in nothing but the Cross, to have no rank but that of handmaids in
the house of the Lord. Francesca was their model, their teacher, their
cherished guide: they clung to her with the tenderest affection; they
were, according to an Eastern poet's expression,

[Footnote:"They a row of pearls, and I
  The silken cord on which they lie."

a row of goodly pearls, and she the silken cord which bound them
together. They were coming out of the church one evening, when Francesca
gave them the first intimation of her hopes of their future destiny.
They were not shown the distant scene, only the first step they were to
take.

[Footnote:"Lead thou me on; I do not ask to see
The distant scene: one step enough for me."
Newman's _Verses on Religious Subjects_]

It was one of those small beginnings so trifling in men's sight, so
important in their results,--the grain of mustard-seed hereafter to grow
into a tree. Francesca spoke to them, as they walked along, of the order
of St. Benedict, of the sanctity of its founder, of the virtues, the
piety, the good works of its members, and submitted to them that by
taking the name of "Oblates of Mount Olivet," and observing conjointly
certain rules, such as might befit persons living in the world, they
might participate in their merits, and enjoy their privileges. Her
companions hailed this proposal with joy, and begged her to use all her
efforts to carry it into effect. Don Antonio, to whom Francesca
communicated their pious wishes, lent a favourable ear to the request,
and in his turn brought it under the notice of the Vice-Prior Don
Ippolito, who, in the absence of the superior, was charged with the
government of the monastery. He was the same who at one time formed the
project of leaving the order, and was deterred from so doing by
Francesca's advice. He readily received their overtures, and obtained
for her and for her companions from the General of the Order permission
to assume the name of "Oblates of Mary," a particular aggregation to the
monastery of Santa Maria Nuova, and a share in the suffrages and merits
of the order of St. Benedict.

Greatly rejoiced at the happy result of their application, they gave
themselves to fasting, prayer, and penance, in preparation for their
special consecration to the Blessed Virgin. It took place on the Feast
of the Assumption of the year 1425.

At break of day, in the church of Santa Maria Nuova, Francesca,
Vannozza, Rita de Celli, Agnese Selli, and six more noble Roman
ladies, confessed, received the pious instructions of Don Antonio, and
communicated at a Mass which Don Ippolito said before the miraculous
image of the Blessed Virgin. Immediately after the holy sacrifice, they
dedicated themselves to her service, according to the formula used by
the Olivetan monks; only that the phrase "me offero" was substituted for
"profiteor;" and that instead of taking solemn vows, they were simply
affiliated to the Benedictine Order of Mount Olivet. Such was the first
beginning of the congregation of which Francesca was the mother and
foundress. In these early times, Don Antonio, their director, did not
assign them any special occupation, and only urged them to the most
scrupulous obedience to the commandments of God and of the Church, to a
tender devotion to the Mother of God, a diligent participation in the
Sacraments, and the exercise of all the Christian virtues, and the
various works of mercy. The link between them consisted in their
constant attendance at the church of Santa Maria Nuova, where they
received communion on all the Feasts of our Lady, and in a tender
veneration for Francesca, whom they looked upon as their spiritual
mother. They had incessant recourse to her advice; and her simplest
words were as a law to them, her conduct their example. She assumed no
power, and disclaimed all authority; but the sovereign empire of love
was forced into her reluctant hands. They insisted on being governed by
one they held in such affection, and gave up every pleasure for the sake
of being with her, and sharing in her pursuits.

It was in the summer of the following year that Francesca decided on
performing a pilgrimage to Santa Maria, or, as it is more commonly
called "La Madonna degli Angeli," in honour of our Lady and of the
seraphic Saint of Assisi. Vannozza and Rita eagerly agreed to accompany
her; and they resolved to set on on the 2d of August, in order to arrive
in time for the celebrated indulgence "del Perdono." It was in poverty,
not only of spirit but of actual reality that they wished, to perform
their journey to the tomb of the great apostle of poverty,--to go on
foot, and unprovided with money, provisions, or comforts of any sort.
Lorenzo and Parazza, who had readily consented to the proposed
pilgrimage, demurred for a while at this mode of carrying it out; but
Francesca prayed in her oratory that God would incline their hearts to
consent to it; and soon, with a reluctant smile, they consented to all
she proposed, and both only ejaculated, "Go on your way in peace; do as
you list, and only pray for us." Out of the gates of Rome they went,
through that country so well known to those who have often visited the
Eternal City; up the hill from whence the first sight of its domes and
its towers, of its tombs and of its pines, is hailed with rapture, from
whence a long last lingering look of love is cast upon what the heart
whispers is its own Catholic home. It was the first, and as it would
seem the only occasion (at least none other is mentioned in her life) in
which Francesca left its walls, and trod other ground than that which
the steps of so many martyrs have hallowed, the blood of so many saints
has consecrated. The valleys of Veii on the one hand, the heights of
Baccano on the other, the beautiful and stately mountain of Soracte, met
their eyes as they do ours: would that we looked upon them with the same
earth-abstracted gaze as theirs! The Gothic towers of Civita Castellana
looked down upon the humble pilgrims as they passed by in pious
meditation. The sound of their sweet voices, reciting prayers or
chanting hymns, mingled with the murmurs of the stream that bathes the
old walls of Nurni; and then through the wild defile of Monte Somma into
the lovely Umbrian Vale they went, through that enchanting land where
every tree and rock wears the form that Claude Lorraine or Salvator Rosa
have made familiar to the eye and dear to the poetic mind; where the
vines hang in graceful garlands, and the fireflies at night dance from
bough to bough; where the brooks and the rivers are of the colour of
the sapphire or the emerald, and the purple mountains smile rather than
frown on the sunny landscape; where the towns and the convents, the
churches and the cottages, are set like white gems in the deep verdure
that surrounds them. There is no land more fair, no sky more tenderly
blue, no breeze more balmy, than the land where Spoleto and Toligno and
Assisi rise in their picturesque beauty, than the sky which spreads its
azure roof over the Umbrian traveller's head, than the airs which
are wafted from the heights of Monte Falco, or the hill of Perugia.
Beautiful is that country! fair these works of God!--but more beautiful
still is the invisible world which Francesca and her companions
contemplated, the while, with weary patient feet, in the sultry August
weather, they trod the lengthening road from one humble resting-place to
another. Fairer the inward perfection of a soul which God has renewed,
than all the gorgeous but evanescent loveliness of earth's most lovely
scenes.

At length their pilgrimage is drawing to a close; the towers of the
Madonna degli Angeli are conspicuous in the distance; half unconsciously
they hasten in approaching it; but the heat is intense, and their lips
parched with thirst; they can hardly speak, for their tongues cleave to
the roof of their mouths, when a stranger meets them, one of striking
and venerable appearance, and clothed in the religious habit of St.
Francis. He hails the travellers, and straightway speaks of Mary and of
Jesus, of the mystery of the Passion, of the wonders of Divine love.
Never have such words of fire met the ears of the astonished pilgrims.
Their hearts burn within them, and they are ready to exclaim, "Never
did man speak like to this man." Francesca sees her angel assume his
brightest aspect. Hays of light seem to dart from his form, and to
envelope in a dazzling halo the monk who is addressing them. She knows
him now; and makes a sign to her companions. It is St. Francis himself.
It is the seraphic saint of Assisi. He blesses the little troop, and
touching a wild pear-tree by the road-side, he brings down to the ground
a fruit of such prodigious size, that it serves to allay the thirst and
restore the strength of the exhausted travellers.

That day they reached the shrine where they had so longed to kneel;
that little hut, once the abode of the saint, which stands in its rough
simplicity within the gorgeous church; where the rich and great of the
world come daily to do homage to the apostle of poverty, the close
imitator of Him who had not often where to lay His head. There they
received communion the next morning; there they prayed for their absent
friends; there Francesca had a vision, in which she was encouraged
to persevere in her labours, to accomplish her pious design, and the
protection of Jesus and His Mother was promised to her. Let us follow
them in thought up the steep hill to Assisi--to the church where the
relics of the saint, where his mortal remains are laid. Let us descend
into the subterranean chapel, pause at every altar, and muse on the
records of that astonishing life, the most marvellous perhaps of any
which it has ever been permitted to mortal man to live. Let us go with
them to the home of his youth, where his confessorship began in childish
sufferings for the sake of Christ. Let us venerate with them the relics
of St. Clare, the gentle sister spirit whose memory and whose order are
linked with his; and for a moment think what prayers, what vows, what
acts of faith, of hope, of charity, must have risen like incense
from those devoted hearts in such scenes, amidst such recollections.
Doubtless they bore away with them a host of sweet and pious thoughts.
Their faces must have shone with heaven's own light as they retraced
their steps to the home where loving hearts were awaiting them. Few such
pilgrimages can have ever been performed, Francesca at the tomb of St.
Francis of Assisi must have been a blessed sight even for an angel's
eyes.







CHAPTER XI.

DEATH OF FRANCESCA'S FRIEND AND DIRECTOR, DON ANTONIO--TROUBLES IN ROME
AND ITALY FORETOLD BY FRANCESCA--DEATH OF VANNOZZA, FRANCESCA'S SISTER
IN LAW--FOUNDATION OF THE CONGREGATION OF OBLATES OF TOR DI SPECCHI.

THE extraordinary graces which had attended our Saint during her
pilgrimage were the prelude of a trial which was awaiting her in Rome.
Her earliest friend, her long-trusted guide, Don Antonio Savello, had
died during her absence. Though she accepted this dispensation of God's
providence with her habitual resignation, it cut her to the heart. She
had deeply loved and reverenced her spiritual father; he had instructed
her in childhood; directed her ever since with wisdom and faithfulness;
and his loss was in one sense greater to her than that of any other
friend. It occurred, too, at the very moment when she was about to
carry out the Divine intimation with regard to the foundation of a new
Congregation, when difficulties were every where staring her in the
face, and the want of a powerful and willing auxiliary more than ever
needful. She did not, however, lose courage, but prayed fervently that
God would inspire her choice of a director; and much time she spent on
her knees imploring this favour. No doubt the selection she made was the
result of these prayers; and one of the proofs that God's ways are not
as our ways, nor His thoughts as our thoughts. Her choice fell on Don
Giovanni Mattiotti, the curate of Santa Maria in Trastevere, to whom she
had already sometimes been to confession. He was a man of irreproachable
character and distinguished piety, but of an irresolute and vaccillating
disposition, easily disheartened; nor would he at first sight have
appeared qualified for the direction of a person as far advanced in
perfection as Francesca, on whom God had such great designs, and with
whom He chose to deal in such wonderful ways. But the trials which
Francesca had to endure from the irresolution of Don Giovanni; the
patience with which she submitted to his varying commands; and the
supernatural means through which he was taught to recognise her
sanctity, and to assist in carrying out her designs, tended in the end
to the glory of God, and the praise of the Saint, whose very humility
was a trial to her, in those days of small beginnings, and often of
painful doubts. Crosses of various kinds arose in connection with the
undertaking. Some of the monks of Santa Maria Nuova, for instance,
took occasion, on the visits of a father inspector, to complain of Don
Ippolito, and to accuse him of transgressing the statutes, and going
beyond his powers, in admitting a congregation of women to the name and
the privileges of their order; especially considering that several of
these women were married, and living in the world. But the visitor was
a man of piety and prudence. He closely examined into the question, and
satisfied himself that the institution tended to edification, and was
pleasing to God; and he sanctioned it accordingly, as far as was in his
power, and promised to advocate its cause with the father-general.

In the month of July of 1430 Francesca had a remarkable vision, which
indicated to her the events that were speedily to follow, and which
she prophesied with an accuracy, that, in the end, occasioned general
astonishment. One night, after spending several hours in prayer, she saw
a lurid light, through which a number of Satan's ministers were hurrying
to and fro, shaking their torches, and rejoicing with dreadful glee
over the impending calamities of Rome. The Saint fell on her knees,
and besought the Lord to spare her unhappy country. Then falling into
ecstasy, she beheld the Infant Jesus in His Mother's arms surrounded
with angels, and St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. John the Baptist in the
attitude of prayer, pleading for mercy to the Eternal City, which they
seemed to protect by their fervent supplications. At the same time she
heard a voice that said, "The prayers of the saints have stayed the arm
of the Lord; but woe to the guilty city if she repent not, for great
afflictions are at hand." Some days afterwards the lightning fell
simultaneously on the churches of St. Peter, St. Paul, and on the shrine
of St. John Baptist in the Lateran Basilica. Francesca shuddered when
she heard of it; she felt at once that the day of grace had gone by;
and in thrilling words described to her confessor, and to several other
persons that were present, the misfortunes that were about to fall upon
Rome.

The fulfilment of her predictions was not long delayed, though nothing
at the time seemed to give them weight. The unwearied exertions of
Martin V. had succeeded in healing the wounds of Christendom. In Rome
he had repressed anarchy, recalled the exiled citizens to their homes,
rebuilt the churches, given a new impulse to the government, to the
administration of justice, to politics, to literature, to science, and
to art. He had worked hard to promote a reformation in the manners of
the clergy, and effected in many places the re-establishment of the
discipline of the Church. The legates whom he sent to all the courts of
Europe had restored some degree of union between the Christian princes,
and preached a crusade against the Turks and the followers of John Huss.
He had called together a council, which was first convened at Pavia, and
afterwards removed, first to Sienna, and then to Basle. But before he
could him self join the assembly, death overtook him. Worn out with his
indefatigable labours for the welfare of Christendom, he went to receive
his reward at an unadvanced age, in the month of February of the year
1431.

Gabriel Candalucero succeeded him under the name of Eugenius IV. The
first Consistory which he held was marked by a fearful accident, which
people chose to consider as an evil omen. The floor of the hall gave
way, and in the midst of the confusion that ensued a bishop was killed,
and many persons grievously wounded. A discontented monk put about the
report that Martin V. had died in possession of a considerable treasure;
and the Colonnas, catching eagerly at this pretext, took up arms to
make good their claims to this supposed heritage. Once more the adverse
factions rose against each other, and blood flowed in the streets of
Rome. The Colonnas were constrained to fly; and the monk, convicted of
having conspired to deliver up the Castle of St. Angelo to the rebels,
and to get the Pope assassinated, was condemned to death and executed. A
temporary reconciliation was effected between Eugenius IV. and the too
powerful family of the Colonnas; but their haughty and violent temper
soon brought about a rupture. They advanced upon Rome at the head of
their troops; a bloody engagement took place under the walls of the
city, in which the pontifical troops had the upper hand, but many of the
nobles perished in the affray.

Conflicts of a still more harrowing nature now arose between the Pope
and the Council of Basle. Duke Philip of Milan availed himself of this
opportunity to retrieve the sacrifices he had made in a treaty which the
Pope had led him to sign with the Venetians. He forged a decree which,
purported to proceed from the fathers of the council, appointing him
lieutenant-general of the Church in Italy; and armed with this assumed
title, he despatched to the Roman States Francesca Sforza and Nicholas
Fortebraccio, two famous adventurers in his pay. The latter advanced
upon Rome, and began to devastate its neighbourhood. The Pope, wholly
unprepared for defence, warded off the danger by sowing dissension
between the two generals, which he effected by giving up to Sforza, for
his lifetime, the possession of Ancona, and of the provinces which he
had conquered in the states of the Church. Sforza, in consequence, took
part with Eugenius, and defeated Fortebraccio at Tivoli; but in the
meantime a general insurrection broke out in Rome itself. The Ghibelline
party attacked the Pope, laid siege to the church of the Holy Apostles,
where he had taken shelter, and from whence he escaped with difficulty
disguised as a monk, embarked on the Tiber, and found a refuge first at
Pisa and then at Bologna. Rome was given up for five months to all the
horrors of anarchy, the pontifical palace pillaged, and new magistrates
chosen in lieu of those appointed by the Pope; the garrison of the
castle of St. Angelo alone remaining firm in its allegiance to the
sovereign Pontiff. Weary at last of so much disorder, the city of its
own accord submitted itself to lawful authority. Eugenius sent a legate,
who in some measure succeeded in re-establishing peace; but he himself
remained in the north of Italy, engaged in convoking a council,
wherewith to oppose the irregular decrees of that assembled at Basle.

These events, which spread over several years, are related in
confirmation of the prophetical gifts of Francesca, who accurately
foresaw and foretold them when nothing presaged their occurrence. At the
time when this storm was about to burst over Italy, and the beginning of
sorrow was at hand, she was doomed to experience another of the heavy
afflictions that life had yet in store for her. Vannozza, her cherished
companion, her sister, her counsellor, her bosom friend, was summoned to
receive her heavenly crown; and she herself to add to all her virtues a
more perfect detachment from all earthly ties. They had been united by
every link that affection, sympathy, and similarity of feeling, tastes,
and opinions can create between two hearts devoted to God, and through
Him to each other. Their union had not been obscured by the smallest
cloud. Together they had prayed, suffered, and laboured; and in trials
and joys alike they had been inseparable. Francesca had been warned in
a vision of the approaching end of her sister-in-law; and at length,
strong in faith, she stands by her dying-bed; and when the Evil One,
baffled in life, makes a final effort to disturb the departing soul,
she prays for the beloved of her heart, sprinkles holy water on that
much-loved form, reads aloud the history of the Passion of our Lord;
and Vannozza, supported by those sacramental graces which Satan cannot
withstand, followed almost beyond the verge of life by that watchful
tenderness which had been her joy on earth, sees the evil spirit retire
before the might of Francesca's angel, and breathes her last in perfect
peace. The soul which had served and loved God so fervently upon earth
was carried up to heaven in a form visible to the eyes of her friend; a
pure flame, enveloped in a light transparent cloud, was the symbol of
that gentle spirit's flight into its kindred skies.

The mortal remains of Vannozza were laid in the church of the Ara Coeli,
in the chapel of Santa Croce. The Roman people resorted there in crowds
to behold once more their loved benefactress,--the mother of the poor,
the consoler of the afflicted. All strove to carry away some little
memorial of one who had gone about among them doing good; and during the
three days which preceded the interment, the concourse did not abate. On
the day of the funeral, Francesca knelt on one side of the coffin, and,
in sight of all the crowd, she was rapt in ecstasy. They saw her body
lifted from the ground, and a seraphic expression in her uplifted face.
They heard her murmur several times with an indescribable emphasis the
word, "When? when?" (_Quando? quando?_) When all was over, she still
remained immovable; it seemed as if her soul had risen on the wings of
prayer, and followed Vannozza's spirit into the realms of bliss. At last
her confessor ordered her to rise, and to go and attend on the sick.
She instantly complied, and walked away to the hospital which she had
founded, apparently unconscious of every thing about her, and only
roused from her trance by the habit of obedience which, in or out of
ecstasy, never forsook her.

From that day her visions grew more frequent and more astonishing. She
seemed to live in heaven; and during those hours of mystical intercourse
with saints and angels, and with the Lord of angels and of saints, to
obtain supernatural lights which guided her in the foundation of her
new congregation. The Blessed Virgin revealed to her that St. Paul, St.
Benedict, and St. Mary Magdalene were to be its protectors; and that Don
Giovanni Mattiotti, her director, Fra Bartolommeo Biondii, of the order
of St. Francis, and Don Ippolito, of the Olivetan Obedience, were to
co-operate with her in its establishment. To Don Giovanni a particular
message was sent to confirm him in the intention of forwarding the work,
and to warn him against discouragement from the many difficulties it
would meet with. Wonderful were the sights which it was given her to see
in those long ecstasies, during which her soul seemed to absent
itself from her all-but spiritualised body. Sometimes a speechless
contemplation held all her faculties in abeyance; at others, in burning
words, she described what passed before her mental sight. At times her
motionless attitude almost wore the semblance of death; while often
she moved about and performed various actions in connection with the
subjects of her visions. In the churches which she frequented,--in Santa
Croce in Gerusalemme, in Santa Maria in Trastevere, in the Chapel of the
Angels in Santa Cecilia, in her own oratory,--she is favoured with the
presence of celestial visitants. The various ecclesiastical feasts of
the year bring with them analogous revelations; she spends her time in
the cave of Bethlehem and the house of Nazareth, on the mountains, where
Jesus was wont to pray, where He was transfigured, where He agonised,
and where He died. She adores with the shepherds and the wise men; she
listens to His voice with the disciples and the devout multitude; she
suffers with the Mother of sorrows, and weeps with the Magdalene at
the foot of the Cross. The beauties of the New Jerusalem, the lovely
pastures, the fresh waters, the bright flowers, the precious stones,
which typify the glories of the world to come, are spread before her
in those mystic trances. Deeper and more mysterious revelations are
vouchsafed, wonderful secrets disclosed to her under expressive symbols,
and St. Paul is her guide through those regions where he was ravished in
spirit while still, like her, an inhabitant of earth. One day that she
was in ecstasy a voice of more than common sweetness addressed to her
these words--"Thy path is strewn with thorns, Francesca, and many an
obstacle will stand in thy way, ere thy little flock can be gathered
together in our abode. But remember that hail does not always follow
upon thunder, and that the brightest sunshine often breaks through the
darkest clouds."

Encouraged by this intimation, the Saint began in earnest to consider of
the means of establishing her congregation. During a short absence which
her husband made from Rome, she invited all the Oblates to her house,
and having made them share her slight repast, she assembled them around
her, and spoke to them to the following effect: "My dear companions, I
have called you together in order to impart to you the lights which I
have received from the Lord and His blessed Mother with regard to our
congregation. For seven years we have been especially consecrated to her
service, and have bound ourselves to live in chastity and obedience, and
to observe the rules prescribed to us; and I have long thought that as
we have been united in spirit and in intention, so ought we to be in our
outward mode of life. For a while I fancied that this my desire
might only be the result of my maternal affection for you, and of my
solicitude for your advancement. But the Lord has at last revealed to me
that it is His will that I should found a new spiritual edifice in this
city, the ancient stronghold of religion and of faith. It will form an
asylum for those persons of your sex and of your rank who have conceived
the generous resolution of forsaking the world and its allurements; I
have tagged of the Lord to select for His purpose one less unworthy than
myself, but I dare no longer withstand the manifestation of His will. I
am prepared to accomplish His bidding; but without you, my sisters what
can I do? You are the foundations of the building, the first stones of
the new spiritual house of His mother. You are the seed from which a
plentiful harvest is to spring. Earthly cares, the temporal affairs of
life, must no longer take up your time. He summons you to a retreat,
where you will live in His presence, imitate His example, and copy the
virtues of Mary, where you will pray for Rome, and turn away His wrath
from the degenerate and guilty city. Have you not heard how two years
ago the thunderbolts fell on her sacred towers? Do you not see how every
day fresh miseries are gathering on the devoted heads of her people? But
God is full of mercy; when most incensed at our sins, He casts about for
souls that will appease His anger. He has turned His eyes upon us.
He bids us unite, and stand in the breach between Him and the daring
sinners who each day defy Him. Why tarry we longer? why further delay?
The arms of the Blessed Virgin are wide open to receive us. Shall we
draw back from her embrace?--No, rather let us fly to her feet."

As she pronounced these last words Francesca fell into an ecstasy, which
lasted for some time, and during which she pleaded with God for those
who were to belong to the new institute. Her companions gazed upon her
with silent veneration; and when she came to herself, all with one
accord, and with tears of joy, professed themselves ready to make every
sacrifice which God might require of them, and to adopt the mode of life
and the rule which Francesca might suggest. But their assent was only a
preliminary step in the undertaking. It was necessary to find a house
suitable to their purpose, to obtain the consent of the still existing
parents of some of the Oblates, to fix in a definitive manner their
rule and constitutions, and finally to procure the sanction of the Holy
Father, and his approval of the new order. Francesca attended in turn
to each of these objects. To the first place she consulted her three
coadjutors on the choice of a house; and difficulties without number
arose on this point. The priests were alarmed at the sensation which
this undertaking would produce, and were quite at a loss to find money
for the purchase. Francesca had long since given away almost all that
she possessed. What little remained was devoted to works of charity
which could not be abandoned, and all agreed that she was on no account
to have recourse on this occasion to her husband or to her son. While
they were deliberating, Francesca was favoured with a vision, in which
the divine assistance was promised to the Oblates, and their protectors
(Don Giovanni in particular) exhorted to perseverance. Encouraged
by these assurances, they looked out for a house adapted to the
requirements of a religious community; and after many researches Don
Ippolito proposed to Don Giovanni a building in the Campitelli district,
on the spot where the old tower, known by the name of "Tor di Specchi,"
used to stand, directly opposite to the Capitol, and not far from the
Santa Maria Nuova. Various obstacles arose to the purchase of this
house, which was neither as large nor as convenient as might have been
wished; but they were finally overcome, and the acquisition completed
towards the end of the year 1432. This house, which was at first
considered only as a temporary residence, was subsequently added to,
and has remained to this day the central house of the order; and in the
pontifical bull the congregation is designed by the name of "Oblates
of Tor di Specchi." This matter once arranged, Francesca succeeded in
dissipating the objections raised by the parents of some of the younger
Oblates, and to reconcile them to the proposed alteration in their
daughters' mode of life. It was doubtless a trial to her that while she
was removing all the difficulties in the way of the more perfect life
which her companions were about to lead, she herself could only, like
Moses, look on the promised land of spiritual seclusion which they, her
disciples and her children, were entering on, and after which she had
yearned from the days of her childhood. But she never hesitated as to
her line of duty; it was clear before her. Lorenzo had released her from
all obligations but one--that of residing in his house and watching
over his old age. His infirmities were increasing, and her attentions
indispensable to his comfort. No one could supply to him Francesca's
care. She offered up to God the daily self-denial of her existence; and
by fresh tokens of His favour He rewarded her obedience.

Her next anxiety was the formation of the constitution and of the
rules which were to govern the infant congregation; and in frequent
conferences with her pious coadjutors the subject was discussed. After
many deliberations, during which they could arrive at no conclusion,
it was agreed that the matter should be laid before God in prayer; and
their hope was not deceived. In a series of visions,--in which St. Paul
in the first instance, and on other occasions the blessed Virgin and St.
John the Evangelist, appeared to Francesca,--directions were given her
so ample and so detailed as to the rule which her spiritual daughters
were to follow, that there remained no room for hesitation. The several
fasts which they were to observe; the length of time which they were
to devote to prayer, to work, and to sleep; the manner in which their
actions were to be performed; the vocal prayers they were to recite; the
solitude, the silence they were to keep; the poverty, the community of
goods which they were to practise; their dress, their occupations, their
separation from the world, their detachment from all earthly ties of
interest and kindred which they were at all times to be inspired with;
the precautions to be taken in procuring the consent of parents, and
securing the free action of the Oblates who might hereafter join the
order, were all indicated with the greatest precision; and instructions
were transmitted to Don Giovanni and his co-operators to enlighten them
as to the guidance and government of the congregation. The miraculous
manner in which the Saint had often read their most secret thoughts, the
miracles they saw her perform, and the admirable tenour of her life, in
which the most active virtues were combined with the deepest humility,
and supernatural favours received with the most profound self-abasement,
were to them a warrant of the genuineness of her revelations, the
substance of which, condensed and reduced into a series of rules, are to
this day observed by the Oblates of Tor di Specchi.




CHAPTER XII.

PROGRESS AND TRIALS OF THE YOUNG COMMUNITY--IT IS CONFIRMED BY THE
POPE--TROUBLES IN ROME AND THE CHURCH TERMINATED THROUGH FRANCESCA'S
INTERCESSION AND THE COUNCIL OF FLORENCE.

It was on the 25th of March, the Feast of the Annunciation, in the year
1433, that the Oblates, ten in number, met in the church of Santa Maria
in Trastevere, where their holy foundress had so long been in the habit
of resorting. They all heard Mass, and went to communion with the
utmost fervour, and then in procession proceeded to the house they were
henceforward to inhabit. That house, which now-a-days is thrown open
during the Octave of the Feast of San Francesca, where young women come
with their little children, and point out to them the room which they
inhabited in their own childhood, when under the gentle care of the
Oblates of Mary. It is no gloomy abode, the Convent of Tor di Specchi
even in the eyes of those who cannot understand the happiness of a nun.
It is such a place which one loves to see children in; where religion is
combined with every thing that pleases the eye and recreates the mind.
The beautiful chapel; the garden with its magnificent orange-trees; the
open galleries, with their fanciful decorations and scenic recesses,
where a holy picture or figure takes you by surprise, and meets you at
every turn; the light airy rooms where religious prints and ornaments,
with flowers, birds, and ingenious toys, testify that innocent
enjoyments are encouraged and smiled upon, while from every window
may be caught a glimpse of the Eternal City, a spire, a ruined
wall,--something that speaks of Rome and its thousand charms. On Holy
Thursday no sepulchre is more beautiful than that of Tor di Specchi.
Flowers without end, and bright hangings, all sweet and costly things,
do homage to the Lord in the hours of His loving imprisonment.

But on the day when Francesca's companions first entered those walls,
there was nothing very fair or beautiful to greet them, though they
earned there, however, in their hearts, from the altar they had just
left, the source of all light and love; and to the eyes of faith the
scene must have been a bright one. With delight they exchanged then
ordinary dress for that which the rule prescribed: Francesca alone
stood among them no nun in her outward garb, but the truest nun of all,
through the inward consecration of her whole being to God. Agnese de
Sellis, a relation of hers, and a woman highly distinguished for virtue
and prudence was elected superior of the house. There was a truly
admirable spectacle presented to the people of Rome; these women were
all of noble birth, and accustomed to all the comforts and conveniences
of life. Most of them had been wealthy; some of them were still young;
and for the love of God they had given op every thing, and made over
their possessions to their relations; for it was not to lead a life of
ease, of religious quietude, of holy contemplation alone, that they had
separated themselves from the world. It was to imitate the poverty of
Christ, to place in the common stock, as the first Christians did, the
little they had reserved, and to endure all the privations incident on
poverty. Their exact and spontaneous obedience to the gentle Agnese was
as remarkable as the sweetness and humility with which she ruled. Seldom
seen abroad, their hours were divided between prayer, meditation,
spiritual reading, and works of mercy. (Footnote: The rule which they
then adopted remains the same to this day. The Oblates of Tor di Speechi
are not, strictly speaking, nuns: they take no vows, and are bound by no
obligations under pain of sin; they are not cloistered, and their dress
is that which was worn at the period of their establishment by the
widows of the Roman nobles.) Francesca, obliged to be absent from them
in body, was ever present with them in spirit. She was the tenderest
mother to the little flock that had gathered under her sheltering wing:
ministering to their necessities; visiting them as often as she could
leave her husband's side; exciting them on to perfection by her words
and example; consoling the weak, and confirming the strong.

It was not to be expected that the infant congregation could be free
from evil reports, and from the kind of persecution which ever attends
the undertakings and tries the courage of God's most faithful servants.
The mode of life of the Oblates became the general subject of
conversation; and though the wiser and better portion of the community
were filled with respect and admiration for their virtues, there were
not wanting persons to raise a cry against them and against their
foundress, and to complain that women should be allowed to lend an
existence which was strictly speaking neither secular nor religious; a
monastery without enclosure, without vows, without revenues, without any
security for its permanent support. Their comments were not without
effect on the naturally irresolute mind of Don Giovanni Mattiotti and
Fra Bartolommeo Biandii. The former, in particular, grew discontented
and desponding. The direction of the order was a heavy burden to him;
and his faith in Francesca's revelations was shaken by the many worldly
difficulties which he foresaw. The miraculous manner in which the Saint
read his thoughts, and transmitted to him and his companion the reproofs
and encouragements which were supernaturally addressed to them through
the medium of one of her visions, opened their eyes to a sense of their
pusillanimity, and made them ashamed of their misgivings.

Another threatened trial was, by the mercy of God, turned into a
consolation. One of the youngest of the Oblates, Augustina Coluzzi, was
the only child of her mother, who was a widow. This mother had made a
generous sacrifice to God in gladly surrendering this beloved daughter
to the exclusive service of Him who had called her to that high
vocation; but she had miscalculated her sacrifice, or, perhaps, trusted
too much to her own strength. When the sacrifice was made, the human
feelings rose in her heart with terrible violence, and life appeared to
her as one dreary blank, now that her home was shorn of its light, now
that the beloved child of her heart had ceased to gladden her eyes.
Self-reproach for their vain repinings heightened her misery, and misery
at last grew into despair. In an instant of wild recklessness she seized
a knife, and was about to destroy herself, when, like an angel at the
hour of her utmost need, her daughter was at her side, and arrested her
arm. It was so against all rules and all probabilities that she should
have come to her at that moment, that she gazed on her in silent
astonishment. Francesca was in prayer at the moment, when Satan had been
tempting the unfortunate woman; and the dreadful danger she was in was
miraculously revealed to her. She instantly ordered Augustina to leave
what she was about, and hurry to her mother. The young girl arrived in
time; and so great was th« impression which this merciful interposition
produced on the mother, so deep her sense of the peril to which her soul
had been exposed, that she hastened to throw herself at Francesca's
feet, and with blessings on her and on her daughter, she expressed her
gratitude for Augustina's vocation, and her earnest wish that she should
remain faithful to it.

Another trial arose in those early days at Tor di Specchi from the
resolution formed by a wealthy young heiress to join the order. She
belonged to one of the noblest families in Rome, and was bent on
employing her fortune in supporting the infant congregation. Francesca
was reluctant to receive her; but, over persuaded by the opinions of
others, she gave way. A violent opposition immediately arose; and there
was no end to the calumnies and vituperations which were employed on the
occasion. Francesca, again enlightened by a divine intimation, insisted
on restoring the young person to her family; and a rule was henceforward
made that none but persons of a more advanced age should be admitted
into the order.

These and many other difficulties rendered it very desirable that the
approval of the Holy Father should set its seal on the work, and furnish
it with a shield against the malice of the world. The permissions which
they sought were as follows: 1st, that the Oblates should be allowed
the rights to live in community, and to admit other persons into their
society; 2d, that they might elect for themselves a superioress; 3d,
that this superioress should have the power of choosing a confessor for
the house; 4th, that they should have a chapel in which to hear Mass, to
go to confession and to communion, and be exempted from the jurisdiction
of the parish and the parish priests. This scheme was fully approved of
by the three coadjutors; but it was some time before Don Giovanni could
be induced to lay it before the sovereign Pontiff. He alleged that the
disturbed state of Rome, and the many distracting cares which were
besetting the Holy Father, held out no prospect of success in such a
mission; but, urged by various irresistible proofs that God willed that
he should undertake it, he at last consented. The petition was framed in
the name of the Oblates, Francesca absolutely refusing to be mentioned
as the foundress. While he bent his way to the pontifical palace, the
Oblates of Tor di Specchi and the monks of Santa Maria Nuova joined in
fervent prayer to God for the success of his application. Eugenius IV.
received Francesca's messenger with great kindness, and bade him carry
back to her assurances of his favourable disposition towards the
congregation, recommending himself at the same time to her prayers and
to those of her sisters. He commended the examination of the case to
Gaspard, Archbishop of Conza, and enjoined him to verify the facts
recited in the petition, and to communicate on the subject with the
prior and the monks of Santa Maria Nuova; and if satisfied with the
result, to grant the privileges therein requested. The archbishop
applied himself with diligence to the execution of these orders; and the
original document in which this authorisation is recorded still exists
amongst the archives of the monastery. It stipulates that the Oblates
shall be subject to the jurisdiction of the superior and of the monks of
Santa Maria Nuova, and that they may continue to inhabit the house of
Tor di Specchi until such time as they shall have made purchase of
another. A short time afterwards the Oblates, full of gratitude and joy
at the favours which had been granted them, and every day more satisfied
with their abode, solicited and obtained permission to remain in it in
perpetuity. This last transaction took place at the very time when Rome
was given up to anarchy, and frightful disorders reigned within its
walls; when the pontifical magistrates had been thrust aside, and
furious demagogues installed in their places. The Pope had taken refuge
in Bologna, and it is from that town that is dated the last-mentioned
decree. The congregation was successively confirmed by three of the
generals of the Olivetan order; and in 1444 Eugenius IV. extended
still further the privileges and franchises of the Oblates.

Francesca was deeply impressed with the responsibility she had incurred
in the establishment of her congregation, and felt herself bound to
advance more and more in virtue herself, as well as further the piety of
her spiritual daughters. During her visits to the convent she used to
work indiscriminately in the kitchen or in the parlour; waited at table,
and cleaned the plates, as it might happen; and could not bear to be
treated with the least distinction. In coming in, and in going away, she
always reverently kissed the hand of Agnese de Sellis the superioress,
and asked for her blessing. She sometimes accompanied the sisters to her
vineyard near St. Paul without the Walls, where they gathered wood,
and carried it back to Rome bound in faggots for burning. She gently
reproved one of the Oblates who, on one of these occasions, sought to
screen her from observation when an illustrious personage was passing
by. She took them with her to visit the hospitals and the poverty-houses
in the city: and the miraculous cures which she performed in their
presence confirmed their faith, and inflamed them with the most ardent
desire to imitate her example.

At the time that the misfortunes of Rome were at their height, Francesca
appeared one morning at the monastery, and gathering around her her
spiritual daughters, she thus addressed them: "What shall we do, my
children? The wrath of God is warring fierce against our unhappy
country; Rome is in the hands of cruel and lawless men; the Holy Father
in exile; his ministers prison, his life sought after as if he were
an odious oppressor, and we know not when to look for his return.
Immorality is increasing, vice triumphant, hell yawning for souls which
Christ's blood has redeemed, and those who ought to extinguish do but
excite the flame, and draw upon us the just judgment of God. The Blessed
Virgin requires at our hands more fervent prayers, more tears, more
penances. We must supply for the great dearth of love. Mortifications
and prayer are the weapons we are furnished with; our hearts are the
victims which must he slain for men's sins; our tears must quench those
unholy fires; we shall not be true Oblates until we have made a complete
sacrifice of ourselves, of our souls and of our bodies, to the Lord. We
are few; but do not doubt the strength of prayer. Let us be fervent
and persevere, and soon we shall reap the fruit of our intense
supplications, of our long-continued pleadings; and liberty, peace, and
all God's blessings, will be restored to Rome." Francesca's exhortations
had their effect, and the fervent prayers they drew forth had theirs
also; for in the same year the Bishops of Recaunti and of Turpia
reassumed, in the Pope's name, possession of the city; and the Romans,
wearied with anarchy, gladly welcomed their rule.

A more terrible evil, a more appalling danger now threatened not only
Rome but the whole Catholic world. The undutiful conduct of the Council
of Basle, with the violence of their language with regard to the Holy
See, brought matters to such a point that a deplorable schism appeared
inevitable. Pope Eugenius was divided between the fear of hurrying
it on, and that of compromising by undue concessions the legitimate
authority of the Chair of Peter. It was at this juncture that the
Blessed Virgin appeared one night to Francesca, surrounded by saints and
apostles, serenely beautiful, and with a compassionate expression in
her countenance. After some preliminary spiritual instructions, she
intimated to the Saint that God was waiting to have mercy, and that His
wrath had to be softened by assiduous prayers and good works. She named
certain religious exercises, certain penitential practices; which
were to be observed on the principal feasts of the ensuing year; and
recommending to the faithful in general, and more particularly to the
Oblates, a great purity of heart, a sincere contrition for past sin,
and a spirit of earnest charity, she charged Francesca to see that her
orders were complied with; and disappeared after bestowing her blessing.
It was in vain, however, that this revelation was communicated by Don
Giovanni to the clergy of Rome. They rejected it as the dream of a pious
and sickly woman; and even the most earnest amongst them absolutely
declined to attach to it the slightest importance. Not so the Vicar of
Christ, when Francesca's confessor carried to him at Bologna the message
of the saint; he listened to it with reverence and gratitude, and sent
back by his means all the necessary mandates for the execution of the
orders which the Blessed Virgin had given. When he arrived at Tor di
Specchi, Francesca met him; and before he could open his mouth, she gave
him an exact account of all that had taken place on his journey, and of
the very words which the Holy Father had used during their interview.
The Pope's directions were attended to, the appointed Masses said, the
processions organised; and in a short time it was seen that a favourable
result ensued. The Pope was happily inspired to convene the council that
met at Ferrara, and subsequently continued its labours at Florence. This
at last put an end to the pretensions of the illegal assembly at Basle,
and the wounds of the Church were gradually healed. There was but one
opinion at the time as to the cause of this favourable change in the
aspect of affairs. It was unanimously ascribed to the prayers of
Francesca and to the Pope's compliance with the orders she had received;
and in the process of her canonisation this point is treated of at
length, and satisfactorily established; and those who are acquainted
with the extreme caution observed on these occasions in admitting
evidence on such a subject, will he impressed with the conviction that
she was used as an instrument of God's mercy towards His suffering
Church.




CHAPTER XIII.

DEATH OF FRANCESCA'S HUSBAND--SHE GOES TO RESIDE WITH THE COMMUNITY OF
TOR DI SPECCC--HER LIFE AS SUPERIORESS.

FRANCESCA had been forty years married to Lorenzo Ponziano; and through
her married life, the heart that had been consecrated to God from the
first dawn of existence had been faithful in its love to him whom God
Himself had appointed to be her chief earthly care: and blessed had been
the course of that union; blessed by the tender affection which had
reigned between the husband and the wife, and by the exercise of no
common virtues, multiplied by the pursuits of one common object.
Francesca had led the way; in meekness, in humility, in subjection; but
with a single aim and an unwavering purpose. Many and severe trials had
been their portion at different epochs of their lives; but the latter
part of Lorenzo's existence had been comparatively tranquil. Lorenzo was
the first to be called away. God spared him the trial he had probably
dreaded. We seldom are called upon to suffer the particular grief that
fancy has dwelt upon. His health had been breaking for some years
past, and now it utterly failed, and his disease assumed an alarming
character. Francesca, though apparently worn out with toil, with
abstinence, and mental and bodily labours, found strength for every
duty, and energy for every emergency. During Lorenzo's prolonged
and painful illness, she was always at his side, nursing him with
indefatigable tenderness, and completing the work which her example had
wrought. His passage from life to eternity appeared but a journey. The
efforts of Satan to disturb him on his death-bed, though often repeated,
were each time frustrated. Lorenzo had been a just man, and his death
was the death of the righteous. Few men would have shown themselves as
worthy as he did of such a wife as Francesca. From the moment of
his marriage he had appreciated her virtues, rejoiced in her piety,
encouraged her good works, and to a great extent shared in them. No
mean feelings of jealousy, no human respect, no worldly sentiment of
expediency had influenced him. When he saw her renouncing all the
pleasures and vanities of the world, dressing like a poor person,
wearing herself out in the zeal of her charity, turning the half of his
palace into a hospital, he did not complain, but rather rejoiced that
she was one of those "whom fools have for a time in derision, and for
a parable of reproach; whose life is esteemed madness, and their end
without honour; but who are numbered amongst the children of God, and
whose lot is amongst the saints." He had his reward; he had it when his
sight failed him and his breath grew short, when he felt that his hour
was come. He had it when in his dying ears she whispered words of peace;
and Satan, with a cry of despair, for ever fled away from his couch; and
when the everlasting portals opened, and the sentence was pronounced
at the immediate judgment that follows death. Masses, prayers, fervent
communions, and pious suffrages followed him beyond the grave; and when
the saint, who had been the model of wives, stood by that grave a widow,
her earthly task was, in one sense, done: but work remained; but it was
of another sort. From her earliest youth she bad been a nun in spirit;
and the heart which had sighed for the cloister in childhood yearned for
its shelter in these her latter days. She must go and live in the shade
of the tabernacle; she must be alone with her Lord during the few
remaining years of life. This must have been foreseen by her children;
and yet, like all trials of the kind, however long looked forward to, it
came upon them at last as a surprise. When she said, "I must go," there
was a loud cry of sorrow in the Ponziano palace. Baptista, the only son
of her love, wept aloud. Mobilia threw herself into her arms, and with
impetuous grief, protested against her leaving them. "Are you not
afraid for me?" she exclaimed, "if you abandon me, you who have taught
me to love God and to serve Him I What am I without you? Too much, too
tenderly you have loved me. It cannot be that you should forsake me. I
cannot endure existence without you." Her grandchildren also, whom she
was tenderly attached to, clung to her, weeping. Moved by their tears,
but unshaken in her resolution, she gently consoled them; bade them
recollect that she was still to inhabit Rome; that her affection for
them would be unchanged, and that she would always be at hand to advise
and to aid them; but that her vocation must now he fulfilled, and the
sacrifice completed. Then turning to Mobilia, as to a dearly-beloved
child, she fondly said, "Do not weep, my daughter; you will survive
me, and bear witness to my memory." This prediction was fulfilled;
for Mobilia was alive at the time that the process for Francesca's
canonisation was commenced, and the testimony she gave to her virtues
and to her miracles was on that occasion most important, and the most
detailed.

After this, Francesca took leave of her family, and went straight to
the Tor di Specchi. It was on the 21st of March, the festival of St.
Benedict, that she entered its walls, not as the foundress but as a
humble suppliant for admission. At the foot of the stairs, having taken
off her black gown, her veil, and her shoes, and placed a cord around
her neck, she knelt down, kissed the ground, and, shedding an abundance
of tears, made her general confession aloud in the presence of all the
Oblates; described herself as a miserable sinner, a grievous offender
against God, and asked permission to dwell amongst them as the meanest
of their servants; and to learn from them to amend her life, and enter
upon a holier course. The spiritual daughters of Francesca hastened to
raise and to embrace her; and clothing her with their habit, they led
the way to the chapel, where they all returned thanks to God. While she
remained there engaged in prayer, Agnese de Sellis the superioress,
assembled the sisters in the chapter-room, and declared to them, that
now that their true mother and foundress had come amongst them, it would
be absurd for her to remain in her present office; that Francesca was
their guide, their head, and that into her hands she would instantly
resign her authority. They all applauded her decision, and gathering
around the Saint, announced to her their wishes. As was to be expected,
Francesca strenuously refused to accede to this proposal, and pleaded
her inability to the duties of a superioress. The Oblates had recourse
to Don Giovanni, who began by entreating, and finally commanded
her acceptance of the charge. His orders she never resisted; and
accordingly, on the 25th of March, she was duly elected to that office.

She was favoured with a vision which strengthened and encouraged her in
the new task she had before her. The angel who for twenty-four years had
been by her side, defending and assisting her on all occasions, took
leave of her now with a benignant smile, and in his place another, more
refulgent still, was ordained to stand. By day and by night he was
continually weaving a mysterious woof, the threads of which seemed to
grow out of the mystical palm which he carried. St. Benedict appeared to
Franceses on the day of her election, and explained to her the meaning
of those symbols. Gold was the type of the love and charity which was
to govern her dealings with her daughters, while the palm implied the
triumph she was to obtain over human weakness and human respect. The
unceasing labours of the angel was to mark the unwearied efforts she was
to use for the right ordering and spiritual welfare of the community
intrusted to her care; and truly she laboured with indefatigable zeal in
her new vocation. She had ever before her eyes the words of St. Paul to
Timothy and to Titus: "Preach the word. Be patient in season and out of
season. Entreat, rebuke, in all patience and doctrine. In all things
show thyself an example of good works, in doctrine, in integrity, in
gravity." Preaching far more by her actions than by her words, she gave
an example of the most heroic virtues. It would be difficult to imagine
any thing mom perfect than her life in the world; but the new duties,
the new privileges of her present vocation added each day new splendour
to her virtues. She appointed Agnese de Sellis her coadjutress, and
begged her to share her room, and watch over her conduct, entreating
her at the same time to warn her of every fault she might commit. Her
strictness with her spiritual children, though tempered by love, was
extreme. She never left a single imperfection unreproved, and allowed
of no infractions, however slight, of the rule. Sometimes, when through
shyness or false shame, they concealed some trifling offence which they
were bound to confess, she read their hearts, and reminded them not to
give Satan a hold upon them by such reserve. She was most careful of
their health, and sought to procure them as often as she could some
innocent recreation. They used occasionally to go with her to one or
other of her vine-gardens without the walls, to take exercise in the
pure open air. Francesca's gentle gaiety on these occasions increased
their enjoyment; and the labour of gathering wood and grass, of making
up faggots, and carrying away their spoil on their heads at night, was
a part of their amusement. The conversation that was carried on between
them the while was as merry as it was innocent. These young persons,
born in palaces and bred in luxury, worked like peasants, with more than
a peasant's lightness of heart.

One fine sunny January day--and those who have inhabited Rome well know
how fine a January day can be--Francesca and seven or eight of her
companions had been since early dawn in the vine-gardens of Porta
Portese. They had worked hard for several hours, and then suddenly
remembered that they had brought no provision with them. They soon
became faint and hungry, and above all very thirsty. Perna, the youngest
of all the Oblates, was particularly heated and tired, and approaching
the Mother Superior, with a wearied expression of countenance, she
asked permission to go and drink some water at a fountain some way off
on the public road.

"Be patient, my child," Francesca answered; "the fountain is too
distant." She was afraid of these young persons drinking cold water,
heated as they were by toil and exposure to the sun. They went on with
their work; and withdrawing aside, Francesca knelt down, clasped her
hands, and with her eyes raised to heaven, said, "Lord Jesus, I have
been thoughtless in bringing my sisters here, and forgetting to provide
food for them. Help us in our need."

Perna, who had kept near to the Mother Superior, probably with the
intention of urging her request, overheard this prayer, and, a little
irritated by the feverish thirst she was enduring, said to herself with
some impatience, "It would be more to the purpose to take us home at
once."

Francesca read the inward thought, and turning to the discontented girl
she said, "My child, you do not trust enough in God. Look up and see."
Perna obeyed, and following the direction of Francesca's hand, she saw a
vine entwined around a tree, from whose dead and leafless branches were
hanging a number of the finest bunches of grapes, of that purple and
burnished hue which the fervid sunbeams of August and September impart
to that glorious fruit.

"A miracle! a miracle!" exclaimed the enraptured Perna; and the other
Oblates assembled round the tree in speechless astonishment, for they
had seen all day the bare and withered branches. Twenty times at least
they had passed and repassed before it; and at all events the season for
grapes had long gone by.

After kneeling to give thanks to God for this gracious prodigy, they
spread a cloth on the grass, and gathered the precious fruit. There were
exactly as many bundles as persons present; and with smiling faces and
joyful hearts Francesca's children fed on the supply which her prayer
had obtained for them. Obedience was a virtue of which the Saint herself
gave a most perfect example, and which she unremittingly required of
others. One of the Oblates having refused one day to comply with an
order she had received, Francesca fixed her eyes upon her with an
expression of so much severity, that the person in question suddenly
fainted away, and remained afterwards speechless and in a state of
insensibility. The doctors were sent for, and declared that her life was
in imminent danger. This was a severe trial to the Saint; she could not
reproach herself for a severity which had been a matter of duty, not of
passion, but at the same time she trembled for the soul of one who had
apparently lost the use of reason at the very moment she was committing
a serious fault. After addressing a fervent prayer to God, and invoking
the Blessed Virgin, she went straight to the bed-side of the sister,
and taking her by the hand with great solemnity, addressed to her these
words: "If it be true that our congregation is approved of God, and has
His Holy Mother for its foundress, in the name of Holy Obedience, I
command you to speak to me." The Oblate seemed to awake from a long
dream, and opening her eyes, she distinctly said, "Mother, what would
you have me to do?" From that moment she rallied, and was soon restored
to health.

Another time, when an aged member of the congregation was dying, and
every moment expected to be her last, Franceses prayed that she might
not be allowed to depart in the absence of Don Giovanni, the director of
the house. For six days and six nights the sick woman lingered between
life and death. On the arrival of her spiritual father she revived, went
to confession, and received the last Sacrament Then, as she again sank
into insensibility, Francesca bent over her and said, "Sister Catherine,
depart in peace, and pray for us;" and in that instant the aged woman
expired.

The poverty of the congregration was extreme. The slender means of the
first Oblates had been exhausted by the purchase of the house and the
erection of a small chapel. Francesca had indeed made over to it her two
vineyards of Porta Portese and of St. Paul without the Walls; but the
trifling revenue they furnished was wholly inadequate to the support
of fifteen persons; and moreover the religions were so endued with the
spirit of their foundress, that they never could bring themselves to
turn away a beggar from their doors as long as they had a slice of bread
to bestow. They often went a whole day without eating, rather than deny
themselves the happiness of feeding the poor. Francesca, happy in the
virtues of her children, but tenderly anxious for their welfare, was
indefatigable in her efforts to procure them the necessaries of life.
She used on these occasions to beg of her relations, or even of
strangers; and Almighty God allowed her sometimes to provide for them in
a miraculous manner.

One day that the sister whose turn it was to attend to the victualling
department found herself unable to put upon the table any thing but two
or three small fragments of bread, she went to consult the Saint, who
immediately proposed to go out with her and beg. According to her
invariable custom, she asked Agnese de Sellis, her coadjutoress, for
permission so to do. Contrary to her habit on such occasions, Agnese
refused, and said, that if it was necessary for any one to beg, she,
with another of the sisters, would undertake it. Then Francesca, after a
moment's thought, replied, "I think that God will provide for us
without any one going out of the house;" and calling the Oblates to the
refectory, she asked a blessing on the bread, and distributed it in
minute portions amongst them. Each on beginning to eat her share saw
it multiply apace; and not only were their wants thus supplied at the
moment, but enough remained when they had done to furnish them with food
for the next day.

The gift of prophecy she also exercised more frequently than ever at
this period. Once, when she was praying in her cell, the nuns heard
her exclaim, "O King of Heaven, support and comfort that poor unhappy
mother;" and some hours afterwards, they heard that at that very moment
a young nobleman, Jacobo Maddaleni, had been thrown from his horse and
killed on the spot, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. Lorenzo
Altieri was dying, and his wife Palozza overwhelmed with sorrow; she had
several young children, and was almost in despair at the idea of losing
her husband. The physician had declared his case hopeless; and when she
sent for Francesca her heart was breaking. The Saint came up to her, and
said compassionately, "Dear sister, give up the love and the vanities of
the world, and God will take pity upon you. Lorenzo will yet recover;
he will be present at my burial." The prediction was fulfilled, and
Lorenzo, restored to health, assisted, as she had said, at the funeral
of the Saint; and Palozza, whose heart had been entirely converted at
that moment, and who had vowed in case of his death to retire into a
convent, whenever her children could spare her, led henceforward, in
every respect, the life of a Christian wife and mother.

The Superioress of the Sisters of the third order of St. Francis
consulted her one day on the admission of a young girl, who had
requested to be admitted among them. Francesca had not seen or known any
thing of the candidate, but unhesitatingly answered, that the vocation
was not a real one, and she recommended that she should be refused. "She
will enter another monastery," she added, "and after remaining in it a
short time, will return to the world, and soon after she will die." It
happened exactly as the Saint had foretold: Francesca da Fabrica went
into the convent of Casa di Cento Finestre, on the shores of the Tiber,
gave up the habit before the end of the year, and a sharp fever carried
her off soon after her return. Gregorio and Gentilesca Selli had a
little girl of four years old, who was paralysed, and up to her waist
her frame appeared completely withered. They had often been urged to
have recourse to the spells or charms then so much in vogue, but had
always refused to seek a blessing through such means. They were carrying
the little child to Francesca, full of faith in her prayers, which they
were coming to ask, when she exclaimed at the first sight of them:
"Happy are you who have not sought your child's recovery in unlawful
ways. In three days, my friends, she will be restored to health;" and
the prediction was fulfilled to the letter.

It would be useless to multiply such recitals as these. As she advances
in years, especially since her retirement at Tor di Specchi, more and
more frequent become the exercise of those supernatural gifts with which
God had endowed the gentle Saint of Rome. No day elapses that some new
prodigy does not call forth the grateful enthusiasm of the warm-hearted
and devout Trasteverini. If a child is trodden under foot by a runaway
horse, Francesca is sent for, and at the sight of the Saint he revives.
If a young boatman, in the prime of youth, is thrown into the Tiber, and
curried away by the stream under the arches of the Ponte Rotto, from
whence his afflicted mother receives him into her arms without a symptom
of life, she calls out to her friends, "Run, ran to the servant of God:
go to Francesca dei Ponziano, and bid her pray for the boy." And when
they return, the mother is weeping still over her apparently lifeless
child; but they shout from a distance, "The servant of God says he will
not die;" and in a few instants, Paul Guidolini opens his eyes, and
smiles on his mother, who some years later becomes one of the Oblates of
Tor di Specchi. If Francesca sits down for a moment to rest on the
steps of a church, as she did one Good Friday, after the service at St.
Peter's, a paralytic woman kneels at her feet, and obtains that she
should lay her hand on her withered limbs, which are instantly restored.
There is no illness on record which her prayers, or the touch of her
hand, does not dispel and subdue. She restores sight to the blind, the
dumb speak, the deaf hear, the lame walk at her bidding; pestilence and
madness and fits and wounds and possession itself disappear before the
power with which Almighty God has endued her; and she walks this earth
of ours dispensing blessings, as the faithful handmaid of Him who went
about doing good.

At the same time, more and more ecstatic grew her prayers, more visible
to all eyes the indwelling of the Holy Spirit in her soul, more removed
from the natural conditions of existence the tenour of her life. At
the hours of meals, which she observed in obedience to the rule, her
companions notice that she hardly ever eats, but that her face is turned
to the window, and her eyes fixed on the sky, while rays of light
seem to play around her, and her countenance grows dazzling from the
celestial brightness which overspreads it. Longer and longer became her
orisons; often in visiting a church she falls into an ecstasy, which
lasts till night. The sublimity of her vision, the glimpses of heaven
which she enjoys, the sight of angels, and of the Lord of angels,
is occasionally exchanged for the terrific apparitions, the renewed
assaults of Satan, who attack her at times with redoubled violence, now
that her ultimate triumph is at hand, and the crown about to descend on
a brow which already shines with the mystic radiance of sanctity. The
old frescoes of the original chapel of Tor di Specchi represent some of
these mysterious struggles between Francesca and the Evil One; and her
cell bears the impress of that strange violence which Satan is permitted
to exercise at certain moments, and which is the type of the warfare
which is ever waged between him and God's Church. He can shake it at
times by the storms he raises; but vain are his attempts to overthrow
it. The mark of Satan's fury is stamped on the roof of Franceses's lowly
cell; but the relics of the canonised Saint now fill the chamber which,
in his impotent rage, the tempter once sought to destroy. But this life
of wonders, of trials, and of miracles, was drawing to a close. She who
had been the holiest of maidens, of wives, and of widows, had all but
finished her course, and many were the intimations she received of her
approaching end.

On one of these occasions she selected one of the chapels in Santa Maria
Nuova as a place of sepulture for the Oblates, and obtained from the
Olivetan Monks that it should be reserved for that purpose. She often
spoke of her death to the sisters, and told Rita, one of the companions
of her youth, that she would succeed her in the government of the
congregation. Don Ippolito, one of her coadjutors in the foundation of
the order, had often implored two favours of her, that she would look
upon him as her spiritual son, and that she would summon him to her
death-bed. She assured him that the prayers of such a worthless
sinner as herself were not deserving of a thought; but, moved by his
importunities, she promised in the end to comply with his request.
Accordingly, towards the end of the year 1439, when he was in Sienna on
business, he received a letter from Francesca, in which she reminded
him of his desire to be present at her last moments, and in consequence
exhorted him to conclude his affairs, and return to Rome as soon as
possible, which he accordingly did. On Christmas-day and on the Feast
of St. Stephen she had visions of the Blessed Virgin and of the infant
Jesus, which she communicated to Don Ippolito in the church of Santa
Maria Nuova, where she had gone on her way back from San Lorenzo without
the Walls and St. John of Lateran, which she had successively visited.
The religious said to her with emotion: "Mother, you will now grant me
the favour I have so often asked of you."

"Yes," replied the Saint, who had been all day in a kind of ecstasy,
though she moved from one place to another; "yes; I look upon you now as
my father, as my brother, and as my son." And so saying she left him,
and returned to Tor di Specchi, still absorbed in contemplation.

Don Ippolito followed her with his eyes till she had disappeared from
his sight, and joy and sorrow were struggling in his heart; for he felt
that the time was come for her great gain and her children's unspeakable
loss.




CHAPTER XIV.

FRANCESCA'S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.

FRANCESCA was fifty-six years old. Her frame, worn out with labour, with
fastings, and austerities, was enfeebled also by frequent illnesses;
but her activity, her indomitable energy, was still the same. She never
flagged, never wearied, never gave way under the pressure of physical or
moral sufferings. It was probably a trial of the latter description, one
which she had always been keenly alive to, that hurried her end.

A fresh schism broke out in the Church, to the scandal and grief of all
the faithful. The refractory bishops assembled at Basle, ventured to
decree the deposition of Pope Eugenius, and to elect as anti-pope the
aged Amadeus, Duke of Tuscany, who had abdicated in favour of his son,
and was living as a hermit on the shores of the Lake of Geneva. The
usurper took the name of Felix V., and this unhappy schism lasted ten
years. Francesca turned to heaven her weary eyes--she besought her Lord
to take her away from this scene of trial: too keenly did she feel
the woes of the Church; too deeply did she sorrow over these renewed
conflicts, and the consequent dangers to which the souls of Christians
were exposed. Perhaps it was given to her in that hour to foresee the
fearful storm that was lowering over the Church,--the monster heresy
that, in less than a century, was to rise against the Mystical Bride of
Christ, and rob her of her children.

On the 3d of March, 1440, Francesca was sent for by her son Baptista,
who was laid up with a sharp attack of fever. She instantly obeyed the
summons; and, on arriving at the Ponziano palace, found him already much
better, and able to leave his bed; but, at the earnest request of the
whole family, she agreed to spend the whole day with them, the Oblate
Augustina, who had accompanied her, also remaining to return with her at
night. Towards evening she grew so weak that she could hardly stand; and
Baptista and Mobilia implored her to stay at the palace, or else to let
herself be carried in a litter to the convent; but she persisted in
setting out on foot. Stopping on her way at the church of Santa Maria
in Trastevere, she went in to ask, for the last time, her spiritual
father's blessing, and found Don Giovanni in the Chapel of the
Angels--that spot where she had so often been favoured with divine
revelations. As he was inquiring after Baptista, he was struck with the
more than habitual paleness of her face, and the evident exhaustion
she was labouring under, and commanded her, as a matter of obedience,
instantly to return to the Ponziano Palace, and to spend the night
there, This order was a severe trial to Francesca, for she felt at once
that if she was not now to return to Tor di Specchi, she would never
again enter those hallowed walls; but, faithful to the spirit of perfect
obedience, she meekly bowed her head in token of submission, and went
back to her son's house.

In the course of the night a virulent fever came on, and in the morning
she was as ill as possible. Francesca's first care was to send for her
director, and to request him to apprise her spiritual daughters of her
illness. Four of them (Agnese, Rita, Catherina, and Anastasia,) hurried
to her side; and when they heard her entreat Don Giovanni not to omit
any of the necessary precautions for her soul's welfare, they all burst
into tears, and seemed at once to understand that their beloved mother
was about to leave them. Francesca gently consoled them, and dismissed
them towards the evening, only keeping with her Augustina, who watched
her during the night, and witnessed the ecstasy during which the
following vision was vouchsafed to the sufferer:--Our Lord appeared,
surrounded with angels and with saints, and announced to her that in
seven days she would die, and receive the crown which was prepared for
her in heaven. Sister Augustina saw her face shining with supernatural
brightness; a radiant smile playing on her lips, and heard her say with
ineffable unction: "Be Thou eternally praised and blessed, O my dear
Lord Jesus Christ! Thanks be to Thee for the unmerited favours I
have received at Thy hands. To Thee, to Thee alone, do I owe all the
blessings I have, and have yet to receive." When Don Giovanni saw her
afterwards, he imagined she was rallying; but she related to him her
vision, and bade him tell her daughters that her end was approaching.
Their tears and their sobs choked their utterance; and the Saint gently
reproved that excess of sorrow, and bade them rejoice with her, and
bless the Divine goodness for the great mercy that was shown to her.
During the next two days she suffered much; but no word or sound of
complaint escaped her. Her face was as serene as if her body had been
perfectly free from pain; and to those who expressed a hope that she
would yet recover, she only answered with a sweet smile, "God be
praised, my pilgrimage will end from Wednesday to Thursday next." She
asked for the Sacraments, confessed, went to communion, and received
Extreme Unction. Ardent ejaculatory prayers, devout aspirations, burning
expressions of love, were ever rising from her heart to her lips. Each
day she repeated, as if she had been in perfect health, the Office of
the Blessed Virgin, the Rosary, and all her usual prayers. The Oblates
watched by her in turns, and Mobilia hardly ever left her side; so that
the smallest particulars of that wonderful death-bed were carefully
recorded. Francesca allowed all those who wished to see her to come in.
She had words of advice, of warning, and of consolation for all.

When the news of her illness was spread in Rome, the heart of the great
city was stirred to its very depths, and a mournful, anxious, loving
multitude beset the palace and the very bed of the dying Saint. Nowise
disturbed or annoyed at this oppressive testimony of their affection,
she had a smile, or a look, or a kind word for each. No cloud obscured
her understanding; no irritability affected her temper. Peace was within
and around her, and heaven's own calm on her brow and in her heart. The
evil spirits, the arch-enemy himself--who, for her sanctification and
the glory of God, had been permitted so often to haunt her path and
assault her during life--are banished now, and stand at bay, gazing, no
doubt, from afar, with envious rage, on that peace which they may no
longer mar. Don Giovanni, who had known so well her former trials, often
inquired, during her last illness, if Satan's ministers were molesting
her. "No," she wouldd answer, with a smile; "I see them no more. God has
conquered; His foes have fled." But the bright archangel, whose task is
nearly at an end, is still at his post; he weaves the last threads of
the mystic woof, and seems to make haste to finish his work. The halo of
light which surrounds him grows brighter and brighter, and Francesca's
dying form reflects that splendour.

On the Monday morning she is still in the same state. Glorious visions
pass before her; divine forms bend over her, and whisper words of
welcome. During Mass, which her confessor says in her room, the Lord
Himself appears to her again; and from the consecrated Host He speaks to
her entranced soul. The Blessed Virgin and the angels surround her, and
the voices of the blest make sweet music in her ears. Late on that day,
when her ecstasy was over, the weeping Oblates surround her bed, and
with suppliant accents implore her to ask of God yet to leave her upon
earth, for the sake of the souls intrusted to her care. It was a hard
request: to have had a glimpse of heaven, and to turn back; to have
tasted the cup of celestial bliss, and to draw back from its sweetness!
Full of love, of pity, of resignation, of holy indifference, she
exclaims: "God's will is my will; His good pleasure mine. If He Chooses
me to tarry yet on earth, so be it then. I am ready to remain in this
miserable world, if He commands it."

But it was not ordained. The next day she grew rapidly worse, and from
that time slept not again. "I shall soon rest in God," she replied to
those who were urging her to repose. The Oblates once more kneel around
her to receive her last instructions: one of them alone, Francesca del
Veruli, is kept away by a severe illness, which confines her to her
bed. Touching were the last words of the dying mother to her spiritual
children; sweet the words of blessing she pronounced on their heads.
_Love, love_, was the burden of her teaching, as it had been that of the
beloved disciple. "Love one another (she said), and be faithful unto
death. Satan will assault you, as he has assaulted me; but be not
afraid. You will overcome him through patience and obedience; and no
trial will be too grievous, if you are united to Jesus; if you walk in
His ways, He will be with you." Then with earnest accents she thanked
Don Giovanni, in her own name and in that of the order, for all he had
done to them; and commended the Oblates to his fatherly care.

At that moment her son Baptista entered the room. His mother sat up in
the bed, and gazing upon him with an expression of anxious scrutiny, she
said: "And can it be that you quarrel with poor shepherds? And do you
rob God of His glory by unlawful dealings with hell?" The persons who
were standing around the bed looked at each other in surprise, and
imagined that Francesca was delirious; but Baptista's countenance and
actions soon undeceived them. Tears rushed into his eyes, and with great
emotion he publicly acknowledged that he had been guilty of striking,
in his anger, some peasants who had injured his fields, and had gone to
consult in secret one of the persons who dealt in occult sciences, as to
the possibility of his mother's recovery. No one but himself knew of his
twofold sin; and the rebuke of the dying Saint came upon him as a direct
reproof from God, and an awful warning for the rest of his life. As the
day advanced, Francesca grew weaker and weaker; but the flame of love
was burning more brightly, as that of life was waning. "What are you
saying?" asked Don Giovanni at one moment, on seeing her lips move.
"The Vespers of the Blessed Virgin," she answered in a scarcely audible
voice. As an infant almost she had begun that practice; and on the eve
of her death she had not yet omitted it. On the seventh day of her
illness, as she had herself announced, her life came to a close. A
sublime expression animated her face; a more ethereal beauty clothed her
earthly form. Her confessor for the last time inquires what it is her
enraptured eyes behold, and she whispers, "The heavens open! The angels
descend! The archangel has finished his task. He stands before me. He
beckons to me to follow him." These are the last words that Francesca
utters; a smile of indescribable brightness beams from her face. The
eyes that have so long been closed to the vanities of life are now
closed in death, and her spirit has taken its final leave of earth.




CHAPTER XV.

FRANCESCA'S FUNERAL, AND HER SUBSEQUENT CANONIZATION.

THE body of the Saint remained during a night and a day at the Ponziano
palace, the Oblates watching by turns over the beloved remains. Their
grief was tempered with joy, for they felt she was in heaven; though
the pang of separation was keen, and their home on earth desolate. Don
Giovanni, Don Ippolito, and Don Francesco dello Schiano recited the
prayers of the Church over the corpse; and though deeply affected
themselves, strove to console the bereaved sisterhood, chiefly by
extolling the rare merits and the heroic virtues of their departed
mother. Almighty God vouchsafed, even during the first night of their
loving watch, to give them a proof of that sanctity which was so soon to
be triumphantly demonstrated. Sister Margaret, of the third order of St.
Frances, had been present at Francesca's death, and remained by her
side during the night that followed. Her arm had been paralysed for six
months, and to all appearance withered. Inspired with a lively faith,
she touched the body of the Saint, and was instantaneously cured. The
Oblates all fell on their knees at the sight of this miracle, and
blessed God for the earnest He thus gave of the wonders which
Francesca's intercession was to accomplish. Each moment they were
confirmed in the blessed assurance of her immediate admission into
heaven; each moment brought with it a new occasion for joyful
exultation. The sweet perfume, the "odour of sanctity," which expression
is so often supposed to be simply metaphorical, whereas it often
indicates an actual physical and miraculous fact, soon pervaded the room
and filled it with fragrance. Francesca's face, which had recently borne
the traces of age and of suffering, became as beautiful again as in the
days of youth and prosperity; and the astonished bystanders gazed with
wonder and awe at that unearthly loveliness. Many of them carried away
particles from her clothes, and employed them for the cure of several
persons who had been considered beyond the possibility of recovery. In
the course of the day, the crowd augmented to a degree which alarmed the
inhabitants of the palace, and Baptista took measures to have the body
removed at once to the church and a procession of the regular and
secular clergy escorted the venerated remains to Santa Maria Nuova,
where they were to be interred.

The popular feeling burst forth on the occasion; it was no longer to be
restrained: a sort of pious insurrection, which the Church smiles upon,
even though it refuses to sanction it; as a mother can scarcely rebuke a
somewhat irregular action in one of her children when it springs from
a generous feeling, even though she feels herself bound to check it.
"Francesca was a saint--Francesca was in heaven." Francesca was invoked
by the crowd, and her beloved name was heard in every street, in every
piazza, in every corner of the Eternal City. It flew from mouth to
mouth; it seemed to float in the air, to be borne aloft by the grateful
enthusiasm of a whole people, who had seen her walk to that church by
her mother's side in her holy childhood; who had seen her kneel at that
altar in the grave beauty of womanhood, in the hour of bereavement, and
now in death; carried thither in state, she the gentle, the humble Saint
of Rome, the poor woman of the Trastevere, as she was sometimes called
at her own desire.

Francesca del Veruli, the Oblate whom illness had detained from the
death-bed of her beloved mother, hears from her sick-room the confused
hum of voices, the sound of hurrying feet, which indicate the approach
of the procession. Full of faith, she starts up, and with clasped hands
exclaims, "Oh, my mother! oh, Francesca! I have not seen you die; I have
not received your last blessing; obtain for me now that I may visit your
remains." With a violent effort, and leaning on one of her sisters, she
contrives to rise and to make her way to the bier. The very instant she
has touched it, her health and strength return. Meanwhile the crowd
augments, and hurries into the church. They press round the precious
body; they refuse to let it be buried. As a favour, as a boon of the
greatest price, they obtain that the obsequies be put oft to the
Saturday; and in the meantime, day and night, there is no limit to the
concourse of people that assemble in the chapel. Still the saintly body
exhales its perfume; still the sweet features retain their beauty; and
to that spot, in an apparently never-ending succession, come the blind,
and the lame, and the halt, and the sick, and the suffering; and each
of those who touch the bier, or to whom is carried something that has
belonged to Francesca, is instantaneously cured. Truly God was wonderful
in this His Saint, and wonderful are the details of the miracles wrought
during those days; and not only were the ills of the body relieved by
contact with the holy corpse, but grace reaches the souls of many who
have been hitherto steeled against its entrance.

Amongst others, two young men of dissolute lives and irreligious
spirits, on hearing of the miracles at Santa Maria Nuova, begin to
jeer and laugh on the subject, and, moved only by curiosity, go to the
church, approach the bier with mock demonstrations of respect. But no
sooner have they knelt before it, than their hearts are simultaneously
touched; a sudden change comes over them. Having come to scoff, they
remain to pray,--they rise from their knees only to seek a confessor;
and return home that night converted to God, and ever after lead the
lives of pious Christians. The miracles wrought before and after
Francesca's burial are so multifarious, that it might be tedious (a
strange word to use on such an occasion, but nevertheless correct) to
attempt to relate them all. Great was the moral effect of this singular
outpouring of God's powers through His servant. Faith grew more timid,
and hope more strong; charity burned in the hearts of many with an
ever-increasing fervour; and the examples which the Saint had given, and
which were now dwelt upon with affectionate veneration, induced many to
walk in the same path, and look to the same end. It was in Lent that she
had died; and from every pulpit in Rome her praises were heard. The most
eminent ecclesiastics of the time all foretold her canonisation; and
the public voice and the public devotion ratified the burst of popular
enthusiasm that had hailed her as a Saint on the very day of her
death, and long preceded the formal recognition of her sanctity by the
authority of the Church.

A few months after her death, her tomb was opened in order to remove
the corpse into a monument which Baptista, Mobilia, and several Roman
noblemen had erected in her honour. It was found in a state of perfect
preservation, and still exhaling the same fragrance as before. The most
exact and detailed examinations were taken in the year of her death,
both as to all the particulars of her life, and as to the supernatural
and miraculous events which had marked its course, as well as those
which had succeeded her death.

From time to time earnest endeavours were made to hasten her formal
canonisation. The materials were ample, and the evidence complete; but a
variety of circumstances interfered with the conclusion of the process;
and though several Popes, namely, Eugenius IV., Nicholas V., Pius II.,
Innocent VIII., and Julius II., promoted the question, it was not much
advanced till the accession of Clement VIII., who had a great devotion
to the Saint, and brought the matter nearly to a close; but his death
occurring in the meantime, and his successor, Leo XI, only outliving
him twenty-seven days, it was Paul V. (Borghese) who decreed the
canonisation of Francesca, to the joy of the Oblates of Tor di Specchi,
of the monks of Santa Maria Nuova, and of the whole people of Rome. Her
festival was appointed to be kept on the 9th of March; and those who
have been in Rome on that day can tell how vivid is the devotion that
still exists,--the worship that is yet paid to the holy Francesca, the
beloved Saint of the Trastevere, the model of Christian matrons; and in
the church of Santa Francesca Romana, as the old Santa Maria Nuova is
now called, and in the Casa dei Esercizii Pii (the old Ponziano Palace),
and in the time-honoured walls of Tor di Specchi, a tribute of love and
of devotion is yielded, which touches the heart, and carries the mind
back to the days when, amidst the strife of war and the miseries or
anarchy, faith, fresh, strong, and pure, asserted its power, and wrought
wonders through such feeble instruments as a woman's heart and a woman's
works.

On the 29th of May, 1608, in the church of St. Peter, then lately
erected, and adorned for the occasion with the utmost magnificence,
after a pontifical High Mass, in the presence of the Sacred College, and
of an immense affluence of strangers as well as of Romans, the decree
was proclaimed which placed Francesca amongst the canonised saints, and
sanctioned the worship which a devout people had paid her, with but few
interruptions, since the day of her death. Rome was illuminated that
night; the fiery cupola of St. Peter, and the sound of innumerable
bells, told the neighbouring plains and hills that "God had regarded the
lowliness of His handmaiden," and that, in her measure, all generations
were to call her Blessed.

In 1633, the tomb of Francesca, which, in consequence of some
alterations in the church, had remained out of sight for a great number
of years, was, through the pious exertions of the Oblates, assisted by
the abbot of Santa Maria Nuova, and the Cardinals Borghese, Barberini,
and Altiere, discovered in the spot where it had been placed two
centuries before. Her bones were exposed to the veneration of the
faithful, and a number of religious processions and services took place
on the occasion. Various miracles again gave testimony to the virtues of
those holy relics, and a magnificent monument was erected beneath that
altar where the Saint had so often prayed. BLESSED LUCY OF NARNI.
BLESSED LUCY OF NARNI.

IT was towards the latter end of the 15th century that Lucia Broccoletti
was horn in the ancient city of Narni, in Umbria, where her father's
house had long held a noble and distinguished rank. Even as a baby in
the cradle, there were not wanting signs which marked her as no ordinary
child; and if we may credit the account given us by her old biographers,
both her nurses and mother were accustomed to see her daily visited by
an unknown religious dressed in the Dominican habit, whose majestic
appearance seemed something more than human, and who, taking her from
her cradle, embraced her tenderly, and gave her her blessing. They
watched closely, to see whence this mysterious visitor came and whither
she went, but were never able to follow her; and the mother becoming
at length alarmed at the daily recurrence of this circumstance, it was
revealed to her that her child's unknown visitor was no other than St.
Catherine of Sienna, to whom she was given as an adopted daughter.

The accounts that have been preserved of Lucia's childhood have a
peculiar interest of their own. Whilst the early biographies of many
saints present us with instances of extraordinary graces and favours
granted to them in infancy, quite as numerous and remarkable as those
bestowed on Blessed Lucy, yet in her case we find them mixed with the
details of a characteristic vivacity of temperament, which give them a
lifelike reality, and show her to us, in the midst of her supernatural
visitations, with all the impetuosity of an imaginative child. When she
was only four years old, her mother's brother, Don Simon, came on a
visit to his sister's house, and brought with him from Rome various toys
and presents for the children. Lucy was given her choice; and whilst the
others were loudly clamouring for the dolls and puppets, she selected a
little rosary with an image of the Child Jesus; and this being given
to her, she took it in her arms, bestowing every name of childish
endearment on it, kissing its hands and feet, and calling it her dear
Christarello, a name which continued to be given to it ever afterwards.
The rest of the day she spent in her own little room, where she arranged
a corner for the reception of the Christarello, and was never tired of
seeing and caressing her new treasure. Henceforth it was here that she
spent the happiest moments of the day. If ever she got into any trouble
in the house, it was here she came to pour out all her sorrow; and the
innocent simplicity of her devotion was so pleasing to God, that more
than once He permitted that the Christarello should wipe away the tears
which she shed on these occasions with His little hand, as was several
times witnessed by her mother, who watched her through the half-open
door. As she grew a little older, she began to accompany her mother
to church; and they frequently went to visit the great church of St.
Augustine, which was close to the house where they lived. Now it
happened that in this church, among other devout images, there was a
small has-relief of the Blessed Virgin holding her Divine Son in her
arms, which took the child's fancy the first time they entered, so that
she stopped to look at it. Her mother observed her as she lingered
behind: "Lucy," she said, "do you know who that beautiful lady is whom
you see there? She is the Mother of your Christarello; and the little
Child whom she carries in her arms is the Christarello also. If you
like, we will come here sometimes; and you shall bring the rosary you
are so fond of, and say it before her image." Lucy was delighted at the
idea; and whenever she could escape from her nurse's hand, she found her
way to the church, to admire this new object of her devotion. One day,
being thus occupied, the thought came into her head, how much she would
like to hold the Christarello for once in her own arms, as she had
learnt to hold her little baby brother. She therefore prayed to the
Blessed Virgin with great earnestness that her request might be granted,
and immediately the marble figure of the little Jesus was extended to
her by His Mother, and placed in her arms. Nor was this all: no sooner
had she received her precious burden, than she felt the cold marble
become a living Child; and, full of delight, she ran home still carrying
Him; and though she met many people on the way, who stopped her as she
hurried along, and tried to take Him from her, she succeeded in getting
safe to her own room at home, where she shut herself up with her
treasure, and remained with Him for three days and nights without food
or sleep, insensible to all the entreaties and remonstrances of her
astonished mother. Conquered at length by fatigue, on the third day she
fell asleep; and when she woke she became sensible of the truth that God
abides only with those who watch with Him; for, on opening her eyes, the
first thing she perceived was that the Christarello was gone. Her cries
of distress were heard by her mother, who, to console her, carried her
once more to the church; and there they found the marble child restored
to the image as before, although for the three previous days its place
in the arms of the Virgin's figure had been empty.

She was accustomed from time to time to pay a visit to the uncle before
mentioned, and when about seven years old she went as usual to spend
some time with him at his country house. She remembered, on the occasion
of a former visit, to have seen a room in some part of the house where
there were some little angels painted on the walls, as it seemed to
her, holding their hands and dancing; and the first morning after her
arrival, she determined to set out on a diligent search after the
dancing angels. The room in which they were painted was in a wing of
the house which had fallen out of repair, and was no longer used by the
family; a staircase had led to the upper story, but this was now fallen
and in ruins; and though Lucy, as she stood at the bottom, could see
the little angels on the wall above her head, all her efforts were
unavailing to climb the broken staircase and reach the object of
her search. She had recourse to her usual expedient, prayer to the
Christarello, and instantly found herself in the empty room, without
well knowing how she came there. But her thoughts were soon busy with
the angels. There they were; little winged children, their heads
garlanded with flowers, their mantles floating as it seemed in the air;
and they danced with such an air of enjoyment and superhuman grace, that
Lucy sat on the ground before them, absorbed in admiration. As she sat
thus, she heard her own name called from the window. She turned round,
expecting to see her uncle or some of the servants of the house; but a
very different spectacle met her eye. A glorious company of saints and
angels stood round the Person of Jesus Himself. On His right was His
Virgin Mother; on His left, St. Catherine and the great Patriarch St.
Dominic, with many others. Then those mystic espousals were celebrated
which we read of in so many other tales of the Saints of God: the Divine
Spouse receiving the hand of the delighted child from His Blessed
Mother, placed a ring on her finger, which she preserved to the hour of
her death; after which He assigned her to the special guardianship of
St. Dominic and St. Catherine, whom from that day she always was used to
call her "father and mother." "And have you nothing to give Me?" He then
asked of His little Spouse; "will you not give Me that silk mantle and
pretty necklace?" Lucy was dressed in the rich fashion of the day, with
a crimson damask mantle over her other garments, and a necklace of gold
and coral beads about her neck; but at these words of her Spouse, she
hastily stripped them off, and lay them at His feet. He did not fail,
however, to give her a richer dress in their place; for she had no
sooner taken off the silk mantle, than St. Dominic clothed her with the
scapular of his order, which she continued to wear during the rest of
her life under her other clothes. When the vision had disappeared, Lucy
found herself full of a new and inexpressible joy. She turned to the
little angels on the wall, the only companions left her after the last
of the heavenly train had faded from her eyes, and with the simplicity
of her childish glee, she spoke to them as though they were alive. "You
dear little angels," she said, "are you not glad at what our Lord has
done?" Then the angels seemed to move from the wall, and to become,
indeed, full of life; and they spoke to her in reply, and said they were
very glad to have her for their queen and lady, as the Spouse of their
dear Lord. And they invited her to join in their dance of joy, and sang
so sweet and harmonious a music, and held out their hands so kindly and
graciously, that Lucy would have been well content never to have left
her happy place of retreat; nor would she have done so, if she had not
been found by her uncle, and carried against her will back to the house.

The death of her father, left her whilst still young, to the
guardianship of her uncle. All her own wishes were fixed on a life of
religion, but her uncle had different views for her; and after long
resistance on her part, he succeeded in inducing her to accept as her
husband Count Pietro of Milan, a young nobleman of considerable worth
and abilities. The marriage was accordingly celebrated; but not until,
in answer to earnest prayers, Lucy had received a divine revelation that
a life so contrary to all her own wishes and intentions was indeed God's
will regarding her.

Doubtless it is one of those cases in which it is not easy for us to
follow the ways of Divine Providence. The marriage was followed by much
suffering to both parties; yet, if we be willing to take the Saints'
lives as they are given us, without seeking to reduce the supernatural
elements we find in them to the level of our own understanding, we shall
not he disposed to doubt the truth of the revelation which commanded it,
or to fancy things would have been much better if Blessed Lucy had never
been placed in a position so little in harmony with her own wishes. On
the contrary, we must admire the grace of God, which would perhaps never
have been so amply manifested in His servant, had she been called to a
more congenial way of life. We are accustomed to admire the wonderful
variety of examples which are presented to us in the lives of the
Saints: that of Blessed Lucy offers us one of a soul with all her
sympathies and desires fixed on the higher life of religion, yet
fulfilling with perfect exactitude the minutest duties of a different
vocation. She sanctified herself in the will of God, though that will
was manifested to her in a position which the world is used to call the
hardest of all to bear--an ill-assorted marriage. She found means to
practise the humiliation of the cloister, without laying aside the
duties, or even the becoming dignity, of her station.

Her first care, on finding herself the young mistress of a house full of
servants, was with them, whom she ever looked on less as menials than as
a cherished portion of her family. And in the beautiful account given
us of her intercourse with them, we must remember that at the period in
which she lived, it was considered nothing uncommon or unbecoming for
ladies of the highest rank to join in the household occupations, and
take their part in the day's employment, working with their servants,
and presiding amongst them with an affectionate familiarity, which,
without rendering them less a mistress, gave them at the same time
almost the position of a mother. Blessed Lucy delighted in the
opportunities, which the simple manners of the day thus afforded her,
of laying aside her rich dress and ornaments, and assisting in her own
kitchen, where she always chose the meanest and most tiresome offices.
What was with others only done in compliance with the ordinary habit of
the day, was with her made the occasion of secret humiliations. One of
her servants, a woman of very holy life and disposition, she took into
her confidence, submitting herself to her direction, and obeying her as
a religious superior. On Holy Thursday, she washed the feet of all her
domestics; and that with so touching a devotion as to draw tears from
the eyes of the rudest and most indifferent among them. So perfect was
the discipline she succeeded in introducing among them, that, far from
presenting the spectacle of disorder so common in households filled with
a crowd of feudal retainers of all kinds, her palace had the quietude
and serenity of a monastery. Never was an oath or licentious word heard
among them; the name of God was honoured; and habits of devotion became
cherished and familiar, where before they had been too often an occasion
of mockery. All the family dined at the same table; and during the
repast the Lives of the Saints, or the Holy Scriptures, were read aloud.
If any fault were committed by any of the household, Blessed Lucy
knew how to punish it so rigorously as to prevent a repetition of the
offence; and in this she was often assisted by the gift of prophecy,
which she enjoyed in a remarkable degree. We read an amusing account of
two of her maidens, who took the opportunity of their mistress's
absence at church to kill two fine capons, which they resolved to dress
privately for their own eating. The birds were already on the spit, when
their mistress was heard entering the house. Fearful of discovery, they
took the half-roasted capons from the fire, and hid them under a bed.
Blessed Lucy, however, knew all that had happened. "Where are the
capons," she said, "that were in the court this morning?" "They have
flown away," said the two women, in great confusion: "we have been
looking for them every where." "Do not try to deceive God, my children,"
replied Blessed Lucy: "they are both under your bed; if you will follow
me, I will show them to you." The servants followed her in silent
dismay; but their astonishment was still more increased, when not only
did she lead them to the very place where they had hidden their spoils,
hut calling the birds to come out, they flew out alive, and began to
crow lustily.

In another story of her life, we find her represented with her women
washing the linen of the house by the side of a river that flowed by the
castle. Whilst so engaged, one of them fell into the river and sank to
the bottom; but Blessed Lucy made the sign of the cross over the water,
and immediately the drowning woman appeared on the surface safe and
sound, close to the river's bank.

And in the midst of these simple and homely occupations, the
supernatural life of prayer, and ecstacy, and communion with God, was
never for a moment interrupted. Strange and beautiful sights were seen
by many of those who were present in the church when she communicated:
sometimes a column of fire rested on her head; sometimes her face itself
shone and sparkled like the sun. Once two little children, whom she had
adopted as her own, saw, as they knelt behind her, two angels come and
crown their mother with a garland, of exquisite roses. But the children
began to weep; for they said one to another, "Certainly our mother
cannot have long to live, for the angels are even now crowning her with
flowers."

The beauty of her face, and its extraordinary brilliancy at these times,
had a singular power in controlling those who beheld it. Even Count
Pietro himself was tamed and conquered by a glance from her eye, when it
shone with this more than human splendour.

This mention of Count Pietro's name reminds us that it is tune we should
say something of him, and of his share in a story which has in some
parts, as we read it, the character of a romance. He was not a bad
man; he seems indeed to have had many good qualities, and to have been
possessed in some respects of a degree of refinement beyond what was
common at the time. He was sincerely attached to his saintly wife; but
he could not understand her. They were beings of different worlds; and
the very qualities which extorted his respect and admiration often sadly
perplexed and worried him. Her very affection for himself was above his
comprehension; his own feelings were too much made up of the ordinary
selfishness of the world, for him to know how to measure the love of one
whose love was in God. He felt her power over himself; and whilst he
yielded to it, it irritated him, and not the less because there was
nothing of which he could complain. This irritation showed itself in a
morose jealousy, sometimes varied by fits of passionate violence; in
which he went so far as to confine his wife to her room, and once even
to threaten her life.

All this, and the yet more wearing trial of their daily intercourse,
was borne by Blessed Lucy with unvarying sweetness and gentleness. But
though she accommodated herself in every thing to his sullen temper,
and even showed him a true and loyal obedience, the desire after those
heavenly espousals to which she had been promised whilst still a child
never left her heart; and as time went on, she began to look about for
some opportunity of carrying her wishes into effect. In those days it
was no uncommon spectacle to see a wife or a husband, in obedience to
the interior call of heaven, abandon every tie of flesh and blood for
the retirement of the cloister; nor was the propriety of such a step
ever questioned. Society, as a body, in the ages of faith, acknowledged
the principle, that one whom Christ calls should leave all and follow
Him. When, therefore, we hear that Blessed Lucy at length resolved to
leave her husband's house, and take the habit of religion in the Order
of St. Dominic, we must remember that she was no more acting contrary
to the custom of the age, than when she worked with her servants in the
kitchen. It is not an easy matter at any time for us to judge of the
vocation or conscience of another; but when we have to carry back our
investigation four hundred years, we can hardly hope that the whole
history of a resolution of this nature,--why it was carried out now, and
why it was not carried out before her marriage,--should be laid
open before us like the pages of a book. Of one thing only we cannot
doubt,--God's will had been very clearly and sufficiently declared; both
at first, when she consented to give up her own wishes, and now, when
the time was come for them to be granted. She contented herself at
first with receiving the habit of the third order, and remaining in her
mother's house for a year; during which time she had to endure much from
the indignation of her husband, who expressed his own disapproval of her
step in a very summary way, by burning down the monastery of the prior
who had given her the habit. But her uncles at length took the case into
their own hands; and after considering the very extraordinary signs of a
divine call which had been made manifest in her life, they decided that
she should be suffered to follow it without further molestation, and
placed her in the monastery of St. Catherine of Sienna at Rome.

Within a year from her entrance there, the fame of her sanctity had
become so universal, that Father Joachim Turriano, the General of the
Order, being about to found a new convent of nuns at Viterbo, selected
her as the prioress of the new foundation; on which office she
accordingly entered in the year 1496, being then exactly twenty years of
age. So great was the reputation she enjoyed, that though the number of
religious sent with her to Viterbo by the general was only five, the
crowds that applied for admission as soon as her presence was known was
so great that the convent had to be enlarged; and she soon saw herself
at the head of a numerous and flourishing community.

Meanwhile, her unhappy husband had not abandoned all hopes of inducing
her even yet to return to the world. He had followed her to Rome, and
made vain efforts to see and speak with her: he now followed her also to
Viterbo; and though unsuccessful in his attempts to obtain the slightest
answer to his continual applications and appeals, he continued to linger
about the convent, in the restless mood of one who would not give up
his design as hopeless. Every tongue around him was busy with the fame
of Lucy's saintliness; from one he heard of her almost continual prayer,
from another, of the glory which was seen to hover over her face in the
presence of the Blessed Sacrament: but soon, in the February following
her removal to Viterbo, the interest of all was absorbed in a new
report,--that she had received the sacred stigmata; and that in so
remarkable a manner as to put all doubt on the subject out of the
question. For it was hi the choir, with the other religious, that, being
engaged in profound meditation on the Passion, she was observed by one
of the sisters to look pale and as if suffering acute pain. The sister
went up to her to support her, and was struck with the appearance of
her hands, the bones of which seemed dislocated, and the nerves torn.
"Mother of God!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter with your hands?"
"Nothing," was the faint reply; "they are only gone to sleep." But
within a few moments the agony she was enduring and endeavouring to
conceal overpowered her, and she became perfectly senseless. They
carried her from the choir and restored her to consciousness, so that
she was able to return within an hour and receive Holy Communion; but
the same sister who had first observed her, being convinced something
very extraordinary had happened, continued to watch her, and followed
her to her cell. She then remarked that her hands were livid, and the
skin raised and much inflamed; and by the end of the week the wounds
became large and open, and shed so great an abundance of blood that it
could no longer be concealed. The excitement which followed, when these
circumstances became generally known, can hardly be described. A minute
investigation was first made by the Bishop of Viterbo; after which three
successive commissions of inquiry were appointed by the command of the
Pope to examine the affair, and each of these inquiries terminated in
the declaration that the truth of the miracle was beyond all dispute.
Multitudes flocked to the convent to see and touch the sacred wounds,
and came back full of the wonders which their own eyes had witnessed.
Duke Hercules of Este, the Pope's nephew, made earnest applications to
his uncle to suffer her to be removed to his own city of Ferrara; and
whilst all these things were going on, Count Pietro still remained in
Viterbo.

The world about him was echoing with his wife's renown, but none knew
his own connection with her. Each marvel that he heard did but seem to
widen the gulf between them; yet still he stayed and lingered within
sight of the walls that shut her from him for ever: now bitterly
accusing himself for the blindness of his own conduct towards her; now
striving to keep alive a kind of despairing hope that, could he but once
gain admittance to her presence, he might even yet regain possession of
a treasure which, when it was his, he knew not how to value. At length
his desires were granted. A sudden inspiration induced Lucy to consent
to an interview: it was the first that had taken place since she had
fled from his house, and it was the last they ever had in this life.

It must have been a singular meeting: the two years of their separation
had altered both. As to the Count, his restless despair had worn him to
an old man. He had never seen Narni since the day of her departure for
Rome, whither he had followed her; and had spent the long days of those
two years hanging about the convent-gates like some miserable beggar.
And the same two years had placed Lucy far beyond his reach, as it were
in a supernatural world above him. When she stood before him at the
grate, and he beheld her marked with those sacred and mysterious wounds,
and bearing in her whole appearance the air of one whose sympathies were
for ever removed from the affections of humanity, his heart failed him.
He had thought to speak to her of her home, and the claims which should
recall her to the world; he saw before him something a little lower than
the angels; and falling on his knees, he bent his eyes to the ground,
and remained silent. Then she spoke; and heaven seemed to speak to him
by her voice. The mists of earthly passion rolled away from his heart
as he listened; the world and its hopes died in him at that moment; an
extraordinary struggle tore his very soul, then passed away, and left
it in a profound calm. For the first time he caught a glimpse of that
reality which till now he had treated as a dream; the world and its
unquiet joys were now themselves the dream, and heaven opened on him as
the reality. All life fell away from him in that hour; and when his wife
ceased speaking, she had won his soul to God. He dragged himself to her
feet, and bathed them in his tears; he conjured her pardon for all the
persecutions and violence of the past, and renounced every right or
claim over her obedience for ever. Then, leaving her without another
word, he obeyed the voice which had so powerfully spoken to his heart;
for within a few weeks he took the habit of the Friars Minor of the
strict observance; and persevering in it for many years, died a little
before his wife, with the reputation of sanctity.

Were this a romande, the story of Blessed Lucy might well end here. But
her life was yet scarcely begun. Shortly after the interview with her
husband just spoken of, Duke Hercules obtained the Pope's orders for her
removal to Ferrara. This was only done by stealth; for the people of
Viterbo having got intelligence of the design, guarded the city night
and day; so that, in order to gain possession of the Saint, the duke was
reduced to the expedient of loading several mules with large baskets,
as if full of goods; and in one of these Blessed Lucy was concealed and
carried off, under the guardianship of a strong body of armed men. Being
arrived at Ferrara, the duke received her with extraordinary honours,
and built a magnificent convent for her reception, to which Pope
Alexander VI. granted singular privileges, by a brief wherein he
declared her to have "followed the footsteps of St. Catherine of Sienna
in all things." In this convent she gave the habit to her own mother, as
well as to many noble ladies of Ferrara.

It were too long to tell of all the signs of Divine favour which were
granted to her during the first years of her new government; of the
miracles wrought by her hands, the visions of marvellous beauty that
were given to her gaze; and the familiarity with which she seemed
to live among the saints and angels. Thus one day, passing into the
dormitory, she was met by the figure of a religious, whom she knew to be
St. Catherine of Sienna. Prostrating herself at her feet, she prayed her
to bless the new monastery, which was dedicated in her name. The saint
willingly complied, and they went through the house together; Blessed
Lucy carrying the holy water, whilst St. Catherine sprinkled the cells,
as the manner is in blessing a house. Whilst they went along, they sang
together the hymn _Ace Maris Stella_; and having finished, St. Catherine
left her staff with Blessed Lucy, and took her leave. And another time
they saw in the same dormitory a great company of angels, and the form
of one of surpassing beauty, and clad in an azure robe in the midst of
them, standing among them as their queen. Then she sent them hither and
thither, like soldiers to their posts, and bid them guard the various
offices of the monastery; "for," she said, "we must take possession of
this house."

One lingers over this period of her story, unwilling to pass on to the
sorrowful conclusion. God, who had elevated her so highly in the sight
of the world, was about to set upon her life the seal of a profound
humiliation. Hitherto she had been placed before the eyes of man as an
object of enthusiastic veneration: her convent gates were crowded by
peisons of all ranks, who thronged only to see her for a moment. Duke
Hercules of Este applied to her for counsel in all difficulties of
state. The Pope had issued extraordinary briefs to enable the religious
of other convents and orders to pass under her government, and even to
leave the second order to join her community, which belonged to the
third,--a privilege we shall scarcely find granted in any other case.
But now these triumphs and distinctions were about to have an end.
Blessed Lucy was about twenty-nine years of age. The honour in which she
was held, and the public celebrity she enjoyed, were a continual source
of sorrow and humiliation to her; and with the desire to escape from
something of the popular applause which followed her, she ceased not
earnestly to implore her Divine Spouse to remove from her the visible
marks of the sacred stigmata, which were the chief cause of the
veneration which was paid her by the world. Her request was in part
granted, the wounds in her hands and feet closed; but that of the side,
which was concealed from the eyes of others, remained open to the hour
of her death. Whether the withdrawal of these visible tokens of the
Divine favour was the cause of the change in the sentiments of her
subjects, we are not told; but we find shortly after, that some among
them, disgusted at her refusal to allow the community to become
incorporated with the second order, rose in rebellion, and even
attempted her life. The scandal of this crime was concealed through the
exertions of Lucy herself; but on the death of her great protector, Duke
Hercules, in 1505, the discontented members of the community recommenced
their plots against her authority and reputation. Then--designs were
laid with consummate art; and at length they publicly accused her of
having been seen in her cell endeavouring to re-open the wounds of her
hands and feet with a knife, in order to impose on the public. Their
evidence was so ably concocted, that they succeeded in gaining over the
heads of the order to their side. Hasty and violent measures were at
once adopted; every apostolic privilege granted by Pope Alexander was
revoked; she was degraded from her office of prioress, deprived of every
right and voice in the community, and placed below the youngest novice
in the house. She was, moreover, forbidden to speak to any one except
the confessor, kept in a strict imprisonment, and treated in every way
as if proved guilty of an infamous imposture. Nor was this disgrace
confined within the enclosure of her own monastery; it spread as far as
her reputation had extended. All Italy was moved with a transport of
indignation against her; the storm of invective which was raised reached
her even in her prison; her name became a proverb of reproach through
Europe; and the nuns whonad been professed at her hands made their
professions over again to the new prioress, as if their vows formerly
made to her had been invalid.

One can hardly picture a state of desolation equal to that in which
Blessed Lucy now found herself. It was as if this token of deep
abjection and humiliation were required as a confirmation of her
saintliness. If any such proof were indeed needed, it was furnished by
the conduct which she exhibited under this extraordinary trial. During
the whole remaining period of her life, a space of eight-and-thirty
years, she bore her heavy cross without a murmur. Perhaps its hardest
suffering was, to live thus among those whom she had gathered, together
with her own hands, and had sought to lead to the highest paths of
religion, compelled now to be a silent witness of their wickedness. Her
life was a long prayer for her persecutors, and we are assured that no
sorrow or regret ever seemed to shadow the deep tranquillity of her
soul. So far as it touched herself, she took it as a more precious token
of her Spouse's love than all the graces and favours He had ever heaped
on her before. But it is no part of saintliness to be indifferent to the
sins of others; and we can scarcely fathom the anguish which must hourly
have pierced her heart, at the ingratitude and malignity of her unworthy
children.

And so closed the life which had opened in such a joyous and beautiful
childhood. God indeed knew how to comfort one whom the world had utterly
cast out; and though cut off from the least communication with any human
being, she could scarcely be pitied whilst her neglected and solitary
cell was the resort of celestial visitants and friends. The reader is
possibly a little tired of such tales; yet we ask his indulgence whilst
referring to one of these last incidents in the life of Blessed Lucy,
which we can scarcely omit. There lived at the same time, at Caramagna
in Savoy, another beatified saint of the same illustrious order, Blessed
Catherine of Raconigi. She had never seen Blessed Lucy; but had heard of
her saintly fame, and the lustre of her life and miracles, and then also
of her sufferings and disgrace. But the saints of God judge not as the
world judges; and Catherine knew by the light of divine illumination the
falsehood of the charges brought against her sister. She had ever longed
to see and speak with her; and now more than ever, when the glitter of
the world's applause was exchanged for its contumely and persecution.
The thought of her sister, never seen with mortal eye, yet so dearly
loved in God, never left her mind; and she prayed earnestly to their
common Lord and Spouse, that He would comfort and support her, and, if
such were His blessed will, satisfy in some way her own intense desire
to hold some kind of intercourse with her even in this life. One night,
as she was thus praying in her cell at Caramagna, her desires were heard
and granted. The same evening Lucy was also alone and in prayer; and to
her in like manner God had revealed the sanctity of Catherine, kindling
in her heart a loving sympathy with one who, though a stranger in
the world's language, had been brought very near to her heart in the
mysteries of the Heart of Jesus. We cannot say how and in what way it
was, but they spent that night together; but when morning came, and
found her again alone as before, Lucy had received such strength and
consolation from her sister's visit, that, as her biographer says, "she
desired new affronts and persecutions for the glory of that Lord who
knew so well how to comfort and suppoit her in them."

Her last illness came on her in her sixty-eighth year: for
eight-and-thirty years she had lived stripped of all human consolation;
and the malice of her enemies continued unabated to the last. None came
near her, as she lay weak and dying on her miserable bed. Like her Lord
and Master, they hid their faces from her, counting her as a leper. The
ordinary offices of charity, which they would have done to the poorest
beggar in the streets, they denied to her; she was left to die as she
had lived, alone. But if the world abandoned her, God did not. Her
pillow was smoothed and tended by more than a mother's care. Saint
Catherine did not neglect her charge. It is said she was more than once
seen by the sick-bed, having in her company one of the sisters of the
community, who had departed a short time before, with the reputation of
sanctity; and together they did the office of infirmarians to the dying
Saint. When the last hour drew nigh, she called the sisters around her
bed, and humbly asked their pardon for any scandal she had given them in
life. We do not find one word of justification, or remonstrance, or even
of regret; only some broken words of exhortation, not to be offended at
her imperfection, but to love God and be detached from creatures, and
abide steadfastly by their rule. At midnight, on the 15th of November,
1544, she felt the moment of release was at hand; and without any
death-struggle or sign of suffering, she raised her hands and cried, "Up
to heaven, up to heaven!" and so expired, with a smile that remained on
the dead face with so extraordinary a beauty, that none could look on it
without a sentiment of awe, for they knew it was the beauty of one of
God's Saints.

The truth could not longer be concealed; one supernatural token after
another was given to declare the blessedness of the departed soul.
Angelic voices were heard singing above the cell by all the sisters;
an extraordinary perfume filled the cell and the whole house; and the
community, who had probably for the most part been deceived by one or
two in authority, without any malice on their own part, now loudly
insisted on justice being done to the deceased. It was done, so far as
funeral honours can make amends for a life of cruelty and calumniation.
The body was exposed in the church; and the fickle crowds who had called
her an impostor while living, crowded now to see and touch the sacred
remains. The wound in her side was examined, and found dripping with
fresh wet blood; the sick were cured, and evil spirits cast out, by
cloths which had been placed on the relics.

Four years after the body was taken from its grave, and found fresh and
beautiful as in life. Then it was again exposed in the church to the
veneration of the faithful, who crowded once more to pay it honour, and
were wonder-struck at the perfume, as of sweet violets, which issued
from it, and attached to every thing which it touched. And it was again
disinterred, little more than a century ago, in 1710, when it presented
the same appearance as before, and the sacred stigmata were observed
distinct and visible to all. On this occasion a part of the body was
translated to Narni, where it now reposes in a magnificent shrine, and
receives extraordinary honours, amid the scene of her childish devotion
to the Christarello. Perhaps, as we read of these honours to the dead,
we may feel they were but poor reparation for the calumnies and injuries
heaped on her while living: or, if we seek to measure these things in
the balance of the sanctuary, we can believe that to her blessed spirit
now, those long years of abandonment and desolation, which cut her off
from all communion with this earth for more than half her mortal life,
were a far more precious gift than all the shrines, and funeral honours,
and popular veneration, which the world in its tardy repentance was
moved to give her.

She was finally beatified by Benedict XIII. towards the middle of the
last century.





DOMINICA OF PARADISO DOMINICA OF PARADISO.

About four hundred years ago there lived at a small country village near
Florence, called Paradiso, a poor gardener and his wife, whose names
were Francis and Costanza. They had several children, of whom the
youngest was named Dominica, who was brought up to the life of labour
and hardship ordinary among the poorer peasantry of Italy, and whose
daily task it was to help in the cultivation of the garden on which the
whole family depended for support. Beyond the first rudiments of the
Christian faith, Dominica received no education; for her parents were
in no way superior in intelligence to others of their class in life.
Nevertheless, from her very infancy she showed signs that the few
instructions which they were able to give her had made a wonderful
impression on her heart; and as her soul received each new religious
idea, it was cherished and meditated on; so that she gathered materials
enough out of these simple elements to build up a life of the highest
contemplative prayer. Among all the biographies of the saints which have
been preserved to us, there are few which so vividly illustrate the
growth of a profound and supernatural devotion in the heart of an
uneducated child as that before us. Nor will it be thought that the
extreme simplicity which mingles with some of the passages of her
life which are here selected, lessens the beauty of a narrative whose
incidents charm us like a poem.

Dominica was marked in a special way as the child of Mary, even from her
cradle. The first occasion when we read of the Blessed Virgin appearing
to her was one day when she was lying on her poor little bed, being then
only four years old. The presence of the Divine Mother with a train of
shining angels then first awoke in her little heart a longing after God
and heaven; and she began to pray-though scarcely knowing the meaning of
the words she uttered-that she might be taught the way to reach that
glory, the vision of which had captivated her imagination. Then she came
to understand that fidelity to God's precepts, and contrition for sin,
was the path of saintliness; and so were traced out on her soul the
first lineaments of perfection. Now she had learnt that contrition was
a sorrow for sin; and the simple sort of catechism which her mother was
accustomed to teach her spoke also of the heart being full of sin,
and how tears of penitence were necessary to wash it from its corrupt
steins. A metaphor of any kind was far beyond the reach of Dominica's
comprehension; she therefore took these expressions in a very
straightforward way, and wept heartily to think her heart should be so
defiled and dangerous a thing. And the handkerchief which was wet with
her childish tears she laid over her breast, thinking that this must be
the way to wash away the stains they talked of.

All day long she revolved in her mind the one idea which had been
revealed to her soul,--perfection, as the road to God's presence; and
thinking incessantly of these things amid the various occupations in
which she was engaged, she came to make every part of her day's work
associated with the subjects of her meditation. To her eye, all untaught
by man, but enlightened by the Divine light, the invisible things of God
were clearly seen by the things that were visible. Once she was
helping an elder sister to make some cakes mixed with poppy-seeds, to
give to her brother who was ill and suffering from want of sleep. As she
baked the cakes, her thoughts were, as usual, busy finding divine
meanings in the things before her. The interior voice, whose whispers
she as yet scarcely understood, seemed to speak to her of another kind
of food which should satisfy the soul, so that it should slumber and
repose in the sleep of Divine love. Then she prayed very earnestly to be
given this wonderful food; and the voice spoke in answer, and said,
"Daughter, the food of which I spake is none other than My love, with
which when the saints in heaven are filled and satisfied, they sleep so
sweetly, that they forget all created things, and watch only unto Me."
And Dominica wondered how the saints took this marvellous slumber, and
whether it were on beds made like her own straw mattress, or in the
bosom of God, even as her mother was wont to rock the little baby to
sleep. When she was at work, in the garden, she would raise her eyes to
heaven, and think how she could make her heart a garden of flowers for
the delight of God. And once, as she so mused, He who had undertaken the
office of teacher and director to her soul appeared to her, and taught
her that prayer would keep that soul ever fresh and green before Him;
and that He would open in that garden five limpid and crystal fountains
to refresh it, even the five wounds of His Sacred Passion; and that she,
on her part, must keep it free from weeds, daily plucking up evil
passions, and the idle thoughts of vanity and the world; that so it
might be beautiful to the eye, and abundant in all-pleasant fruits. If
she ran upstairs, her thoughts ascended to heaven; if she came down, she
abased herself in the depths of lowliness and humility. The oxen
ploughing in the field reminded her to bear meekly the yoke of
obedience; and as she stood in her father's wine-press she taught
herself to tread under her own will and nature, if she would taste of
the sweetness of divine consolations. Once the sight of a hen with her
brood of chickens so vividly brought before her the mystery of the
Incarnation, and that wonderful love which gave its life to cover our
sins and shield us from the wrath of God, that she was rapt in a state
of ecstasy, and so remained in the garden all that day and the following
night. And again, as she gathered the ripe apples which her mother was
hoarding for the winter, she became absorbed in contemplating the beauty
of that soul wherein the fruits of virtue are brought forth, making it
pleasant in the eye of God. And she sighed deeply, and said, "Oh, that I
knew how to store my soul with these precious fruits! how happy should I
then be!" And the Spouse of her heart came swiftly to her, and showed
her how for every apple she gathered for the love of Him, there was
brought forth a glorious fruit within her soul, more gracious and
beautiful in His sight than the fairest apples of her garden. All this
was going on in her mind whilst yet not six years old; and so her life
divided itself between the homely exterior labour and rough discipline
of a peasant life, and an interior of spiritual contemplation, wherein
were revealed to her many of the profoundest secrets of mystic theology.
The world became to her a book written within and without with the name
of God; all creatures talked to her of Him. And this was sometimes
permitted to be manifested in extraordinary ways; as once, when walking
by the side of a lake near their cottage, the thought suggested itself
that the fish, being creatures of God, must be obedient to Him, and
ready to do Him service. Therefore she stood by the water-side, and
called them to come and help her whilst she sang His praises; and the
fish, swimming to the shore, did so after their kind, leaping and
jumping about out of the water; while she sat on the grass, and sang a
little song which she had learnt, and was fond of repeating to herself
over her work in the garden.

One day she was ill, and her mother desired her to eat some meat, which
she did, although it was Friday; and afterwards felt great scruples,
fearing she had committed a great sin. She had never yet been to
confession, being under the age when it is usual for children to
confess. But she now felt very anxious to relieve her conscience of
this weight; only, being confined to her bed, she could not get to the
church; nor did she dare to ask her mother to send for the priest.
She therefore considered within herself what she should do; and she
remembered to have seen the people in the church not only kneeling in
the confessionals, but also before the crucifixes and devout images on
the altars; and in her simplicity, she thought that they were likewise
confessing their sins to them. Now there was a little picture of the
Madonna holding the Holy Child in her arms, which hung in her room, and
Dominica thought she could confess to this; therefore, getting out of
bed, she knelt down devoutly before it, and confessed her fault in
eating the meat with many tears, praying the little Jesus to give her
absolution for her fault, which she thought He would do by placing
His hand on her head, as she had seen the old priest do to the little
children of the village. But when she had knelt a long time, and saw
that the image did not move, she became very unhappy, and prayed all the
harder that He would not deny her absolution, but would give her the
sign she asked for. Then it pleased our Lord to grant her the answer
which her simple confidence extorted from Him; and the figures of the
Mother and the Son raised their hands, and placed them on the child's
head, who remained filled with delight at the thought that her sins were
now forgiven her, and her conscience at rest.

After this her mother took her once a year to confession in the church.
It grieved her much not to be able to go oftener; but her angel-guardian
taught her to submit in this matter to her mother's pleasure, and to
supply the place of more frequent confession by every evening examining
her conscience, and confessing her daily faults before the same picture
as before. Nor was this the only teaching which she received from him;
he taught her that the path to Paradise was a way of suffering; and that
they who aspired to the mystic nuptials of Christ were careful to clothe
themselves with the livery of the cross. And Dominica, in obedience
to these instructions, began to afflict her body with fasts and other
austerities, and gave the food which she saved from her own dinner
to the poor. She ever showed great devotion to the Blessed Virgin,
especially after the circumstances narrated above; and made it her
particular duty to light the lamp before her picture every Saturday, and
to garland it with flowers on that day, as being specially dedicated to
her. On one of these occasions, Mary appeared to her with her Divine
Child in her arms, and promised her that in reward for her devotion she
should one day become His spouse, but not until she had grown further
in perfection and in His love. This promise became thenceforth the
absorbing subject of her thoughts; and at seven years of age she
consecrated herself to Him, whom from that hour she considered her
Spouse, by a solemn vow, cutting off her beautiful golden hair, as she
understood the custom was, and offering it to her Lord. When her mother
saw her hair cut off, she was greatly displeased, and commanded her to
suffer it to grow again, and not to attempt to cut it a second time.
Dominica obeyed; but she secretly prayed that God would send her some
infirmity of the head, which might prevent the growth of the hair. And
this indeed happened; so that the head remained closely cut until her
fifteenth year, when it was cured, and miraculously crowned, as we shall
see, by God.

Our Blessed Lady very often favoured her with her visible presence; but
on these occasions she appeared alone, and without her Son. Dominica
was greatly grieved at the absence of her Lord, and at length one day
resolved to ask the Blessed Virgin the reason why He never came. "O
Divine Lady," she said, "you come very often to see me and talk to me;
but you never bring Him who is to be my Spouse; why is this, for it
grieves me that I never see Him?" Then our Lady, smiling on her, showed
her the Holy Infant sleeping in her bosom. Dominica was delighted at the
sight. "But how very small He is!" she exclaimed "He will grow," replied
Mary, "when you will, and as much as you will; and as she spoke, Dominica
perceived that He was already much larger. "Ah! He is already
growing," she exclaimed; "now He is twice the size He was!--how is
that?" "He grows with your growth," again replied Mary; "and your growth
must be not in the flesh, but in the spirit: when you have attained to
your full growth in holiness, He will come and celebrate those espousals
which you desire so much." Then the Child extended His hand to Dominica
as a token of His renewed promise; and the vision disappeared. She
remained very sad and disconsolate; and her grief, when she thought of
the loveliness of Jesus, and the long time that was yet to elapse before
His promise could be fulfilled, became so poignant, that she fell ill,
and spent eight days in continual tears and sorrow of heart. This
abandonment of her soul to grief was by no means pleasing to the Blessed
Virgin, who appeared again at the end of the eight days, and gave her a
sharp reproof for her want of resignation. "Daughter," she said, "you
grieve for the loss of sensible consolations; but know this, that to
those who attach themselves to such things, visions, and revelations,
and the sensible presence of the Beloved, are not blessings but evils:
wherefore put away your sorrow, and serve God with a joyful and
contented heart." "But how can I be joyful," said the weeping child,
"whilst I am so far from my Spouse and His palace, and still kept a
prisoner in this vale of tears?" Then the merciful heart of Mary was
moved with pity, and she said, "Follow me with your eyes, and you shall
see a glimpse of the country where He dwells;" and so saying, she rose
towards heaven before her eyes. Dominica watched her as she had said,
and she saw how the heavens opened to receive their queen; and caught
through the parted doors of those celestial regions something of the
glory of the New Jerusalem. She saw her pass on through the countless
choirs of the angels, till she came close to the throne of God; and in
the midst of the unapproachable light she saw the Child Jesus, more
beautiful and glorious than she had ever seen Him before; and then, even
as she gazed on Him, forgetting all beside, the golden gates closed on
the scene, and shut it from her eyes. Now when Dominica looked round,
and saw that it had all passed away, she remained full of an unspeakable
longing to reach that glorious country, or at least to see it once
again. She kept her eyes constantly fixed on the sky, for she thought
perhaps it might once more open; and in her simplicity she thought she
should be nearer to her Lord, and to the beauty amid which He dwelt, on
high places: therefore, at night, when all the family were asleep, she
rose softly, and taking a ladder, mounted to the roof, where she spent
the night in prayer, looking wistfully at the stars, which she thought
were at least little sparks of that great glory which had been revealed
to her. And having repeated this several times, it pleased God more than
once to open the vision of heaven to her again; so that she came to have
a familiarity with that blessed place, and to know the choirs of angels
one from another, and to tell the different degrees of the blessed by
the crowns they wore, and many ether mysteries which, whilst she beheld,
she as yet did not fully comprehend.

When Easter came, her mother took her to church, and she saw all the
people going to Communion, and grieved much to think she was too young
to be suffered to approach with them. It seemed also very strange to her
that they should come to so wonderful a banquet, and go away again, just
as if nothing had happened to them; and she thought it would not be so
with her: for, indeed, whenever she was present at Mass, and the priest
elevated the Sacred Host before her eyes, she saw the visible person of
her divine Spouse, adorned with so wonderful a beauty that it seemed
marvellous to her that no one else seemed moved by the sight; and she
thought that all saw what she saw, and never dreamt that it was a
revelation granted to her eyes alone. And once, as she thus reasoned
within herself, and looked sorrowfully on the crowds who were going
to receive a happiness which was denied to her, the Lord of her soul
Himself drew near to comfort her with a foretaste of His presence, and
Dominica felt on her tongue a drop of His precious Blood.

Autumn brought the harvest, and with it hard work in the fields for
Dominica, whose prayers and visions never interrupted her life of daily
labour. She was one day in the fields watching them burn the stubble,
and helping to heap the loads of straw and rubbish on to the fire. With
childlike glee, she danced and clapped her hands to see the flames
leaping high into the air; and she thought to herself that the fire was
like Divine love, and longed that her own heart could be consumed in
its flames like the worthless straw. Then the voice of her Spouse spoke
within her and said, "What would you do, Dominica, if you saw your
Spouse in the midst of those flames?" And she answered, "I would run to
Him and embrace Him." "But," replied the voice, "would you not fear the
fire? do you not remember how terrible was the pain when your sister
burnt her hand?" And even at that moment Dominica saw through the
flames, how a beautiful lady entered the field on the other side of
the fire, leading a child of surpassing loveliness by the hand. As she
looked at them the lady spoke to her: "Dominica," she said, "why are you
here, and what do you seek?" And Dominica replied, "I am looking at the
flames, and I am seeking for God in them!" "God." answered the lady, "is
very near you, and yet you do not know Him." Then her eyes opened, and
she knew that she had been speaking to no other than Jesus and Mary; and
forgetting the fire and her own danger, and all but the presence of her
Beloved, she ran through the flames to the other side, and cast herself
at His feet. In doing this she was severely burnt, for her legs and arms
were bare like other peasant children; but Dominica did not feel the
pain, for she was gazing on her Lord. And the glorious Child took her
lovingly by the hand, and said, "O Dominica, thou has conquered
flames for the love of Me; therefore shall thou ever abide in My grace,
and shalt dwell with Me for ever." Then he blessed her; and disappearing
from sight, Dominica was again alone. On looking round her, she found
that it was quite dark, and the stars were shining brightly; for the
moments that had seemed to her to fly so quickly had indeed been hours,
and it was now night. She began to be very frightened; knowing that her
absence would cause great alarm; but we are assured that, on returning
in the morning, she found she had not been missed, her angel-guardian
having taken her form, and discharged all the household offices which it
was her duty to perform.

On another occasion, she was as usual at work in the garden, whilst her
brothers were bringing in a load of manure which smelt very offensive.
The habit of drawing spiritual meanings from all external objects had
become so completely second nature to Dominica, that her thoughts seem
to have shaped themselves into these analogies on all occasions. The bad
smell therefore suggested to her mind an image of mortal sin, and she
prayed that she might be taught in some way how it appeared in the
eyes-of God. At that moment a soldier entered the garden for the purpose
of purchasing some vegetables, and Dominica perceived that his soul
was very offensive in the sight of God. She looked in his face, and it
seemed to her so disfigured by foul and monstrous deformity, that she
was moved with a deep compassion for him; she prayed therefore very
earnestly, that God would give him the grace of conversion, and save him
from his miserable state. She longed to say something to him; but not
daring to address him, she remained before him, still looking up in his
face, and weeping bitterly. Her manner at length drew his attention, and
he asked her what was the matter, and why she kept thus looking at him
and weeping. "I weep," she answered, "because your soul is so ugly;
you must certainly be very unhappy. How is it you do not remember the
Precious Blood which redeemed you from the power of the devil? Do you
not see the bow bent, and the arrow ready to fly?" "What bow, and what
arrow, are you talking of?" said the astonished man. "The bow," replied
the child, "is divine justice, and the arrow is death and the judgment,
which will certainly overtake you if you do not change your wicked life
and become a good man." As she spoke, the simplicity of her words fairly
conquered the obdurate heart to which they were addressed. With tears
rolling down his cheeks, he knelt before her, and confessed he was
indeed an enormous sinner, who deserved nothing but hell; but that
if she would help him with her prayers, he would go that very day to
confession, and begin a new life; and with this promise he left her. For
eight days Dominica continued in very earnest prayer for him, in spite
of unheard-of troubles and persecutions of the devils; but on the eighth
she knew that her prayers had been heard, for she saw his soul white and
clean like that of a newly-baptised child; and he himself came to thank
her for the grace she had obtained for him, and by means of which he
had been enabled to make a good and contrite confession. He told her,
moreover, that he was resolved to leave the world and retire to a
hermitage, to spend the remainder of his life in penance; but prayed
her, before he went, at least to give him her blessing. This request
puzzled Dominica; and she replied she would readily oblige him, but she
did not know how. Then her angel raised her little hand, and guided it
to sign the sign of the Cross above his head; and a voice which was not
hers said for her, "May God bless thee in this world and in the world to
come." Fourteen years after, this man died in his hermitage, with the
reputation of sanctity.

This first conversion awoke in her soul an ardent thirst for the
salvation of sinners. It was a new feeling, and to her quick and
sensitive soul one which soon became wholly absorbing. Happening about
this time to see a little picture representing the sufferings of the
souls in hell, she was greatly touched with compassion, and innocently
prayed God to relieve them and set them free. Then her faithful guardian
instructed her on this matter, and taught her that the only way to save
souls from hell was, to prevent sin and convert sinners by her prayers.
And to increase her zeal he showed her, not a picture, but the real
sufferings of the lost souls; and the sentiments of pity which these
excited were so lively, that a desire awoke within her to suffer
something in her own body, in order to save other souls from these
terrible flames. And with the idea of experiencing something of a like
kind of suffering, she took a lighted torch, and courageously held it to
her shoulder till the flesh was burnt, which caused her agonies of pain
for many days. These, however, she had self-command enough to conceal,
in spite of some emotions of very natural alarm, which determined her to
find out if possible some other less dangerous method of afflicting her
body. She even prayed God to teach her in what way she should do this;
and one day seeing a picture in the church of St. John Baptist clothed
in his garment of camel's hair, the thought was suggested to her mind
of forming some such garment for herself out of horsehair; which she
accordingly did, and wore it for nine years. And here one can hardly
fail to admire the means by which, step by step, she was led on in the
path of a saintly life. Human teaching she had none; she had probably
never seen a book: but yet we see how the commonest incidents and
accidents, being accompanied by God's grace, were enough to reveal the
secrets of His counsels to her soul. A picture, or a chance word, or the
thought which rose spontaneously out of some image of the visible
things around her, were food enough for a soul which literally "waited
continually upon God;" it drew sustenance and life out of what seemed
the very barrenest desert.

From this time commenced a new life of austerity, so rigorous and
continual, that extraordinary strength must have been supplied to have
enabled her to live under the perpetual tortures she inflicted on her
innocent flesh. And though in the details of these austerities we find
many things precisely similar to those related of other saints, yet it
is certain that their lives and examples were wholly unknown to her, and
therefore that in this matter she must have followed the instinct of her
own devotion, guided by the Spirit of God. But, again, we observe how
she was directed by that quick and watchful eye of the soul which
let nothing escape its vigilance;--a coarse and common print of the
Scourging of our Divine Lord, once seen, was enough to teach Dominica
those sharp disciplines to blood in which she persevered during the
remainder of her life.

We pass over the account of many temptations and apparitions of evil
spirits, to give the story of one vision with which she was favoured,
whose beauty can perhaps scarcely be equalled by any similar incident to
be met with in the Lives of the Saints. It has been said that she was
accustomed to observe Saturday as a day of special devotion in honour of
the Madonna, whose image on that day had its garland of fresh flowers
hung up, and its little lamp brightly burning in the midst. Now it
happened that one Saturday Dominica had taken unusual care in the
decoration of her little image; she had picked her choicest flowers,
and hung them in wreaths and bunches which took her some little time
to arrange. But her trouble was well rewarded; for the Blessed Virgin
reached out her hand and took some of the flowers, and smelt them, and
then gave them to her Son, that He might smell them likewise. Dominica,
full of delight, besought them ever thus to smell her flowers, and to
forget the unworthiness of her who offered them. And then she remembered
that she could not stand there looking at her beloved Madonna any
longer; for it was the hour when she was accustomed to go to the
cottage-door with the scraps she had saved from her dinner, that
she might give alms to any poor beggar who should be passing by.
Accordingly, she ran to the door with her basket of broken bread, and
waited patiently till some object of charity should pass that way. At
length she perceived a woman approaching, leading a child by the hand.
By their dress she saw that they were very poor; yet there was an air of
dignity, almost of majesty, in the manner and appearance of both. They
came up to the spot where she stood; and the child, addressing himself
to her with a certain gracious sweetness, held out his hands, as if
begging, and said, "You will certainly give me something, my good little
peasant girl?" And as he did so, she perceived that in either hand there
was a large open wound; and that his dress was likewise covered with
blood, as from a fresh wound in his side. Touched with compassion, she
bade them wait whilst she entered the house for something to give them;
but she had scarcely done so, when she perceived that they were by her
side. "Ah!" said Dominica, "what have you done! if my mother knows I
have let any one in, she will never forgive me." "Fear nothing," said
the woman; "we shall do no harm, and no one will see us." Then Dominica
saw that the child's feet were likewise bleeding; and pitying him very
much, she said, "How can your son walk on the rough roads with those
wounded feet of his?" And his mother replied, "The child's love is so
great, he never complains of himself." Now as they were thus talking,
the child was looking at the image garlanded with the lovely fresh
roses; and with a winning and innocent grace he held up his little hands
and asked for some of the flowers: and Dominica could not refuse to give
them to him; for spite of their poor rags, there was something about her
strange visitors which captivated her heart. And the mother took
the roses, and smelt them, and gave them to her son; and turning to
Dominica, she said, "Why do you garland that image with flowers? it
would seem as if you cared for it very much." "It is the Madonna and
the Holy Child Jesus," answered Dominica; "and I give them my flowers
because I love them dearly." "And how much do you love them?" continued
the woman. "As much as I can," said Dominica. "And how much is that?"
said the woman again. "Ah!" replied Dominica, "it is as much as they
help me too." But still as she spoke she could not take her eyes off the
child; for his extraordinary grace and beauty filled her with an emotion
she could not comprehend. "Why do you stand thus gazing at my son?" said
the woman; "what do you see in him?" "He is such a beautiful child,"
said Dominica; and she leant over him to caress him. But she started
back with surprise, for those wounds gave forth a wonderful odour, as of
Paradise; and turning, to the woman, she exclaimed, "Mother of God! what
is this? with what do you anoint your son's wounds, for the odour of
them is sweeter than my sweetest flowers?" "It is the ointment of
charity," said the mother; but Dominica scarcely heard the reply: she
was still gazing at the child, and trying to attract his notice, as the
manner is with children. "Come to me, my child," she said, "and I will
give you this piece of bread." "It is of no use," said the mother; "tell
him of Jesus, and how you love Him, and the child will come readily
enough." And at the words he did indeed come; and looking up sweetly
into Dominica's face, he asked, "And do you really love Jesus?" And
that sweet odour became so marvellously powerful, that she was yet more
filled with surprise; and she said, "O beautiful child, what wonder is
this? if your wounds give forth this delicious perfume, what will the
perfume of Paradise be like?" "Do not wonder," said the mother, "that
the perfume of Paradise should be where God is;" and then the blindness
fell from her eyes, and she knew that she was talking to none other than
to Jesus and Mary. And even at that moment the poor rags fell off them,
and she saw them dressed in royal robes of surpassing splendour; and the
Child Jesus grew to the stature of a man, whilst over the wound of His
side there gleamed the radiance of a brilliant star. Dominica fell
prostrate at their feet as they rose into the air; and taking the roses
from His mother's bosom, the Divine Spouse scattered them over the head
and garments of His beloved, and said, "O My spouse! thou hast adorned
My image with garlands and roses, and therefore do I sprinkle thee with
these flowers, as an earnest of the everlasting garland with which I
will crown these in Paradise;" and so saying, they both disappeared.
Dominica strove in vain to follow them with her eyes; but for eight days
after there remained the perfume of the wounds, and her head and dress
were seen covered with flowers.

At length she arrived at the age when it is customary for children to
make their first Communion; and her mother, therefore, took her during
Lent to the priest, that he might examine and prepare her for that
purpose. A very few words satisfied him that she was full of Divine
grace, and he accordingly desired her to go to communion at the
approaching Easter, which was considerably sooner than her mother had
intended. "How can I do so?" said Dominica; "I am only eleven years old,
and my mother is used to say, 'Children should not go to Communion till
they are twelve.' Moreover, there are but three weeks to Easter, and in
that short time I can never prepare fitly to receive our Lord;" and
so saying, she began to weep. Nevertheless, the priest laid her under
obedience to do as he had said, and sent her away; and Dominica returned
home with her thoughts full of this weighty matter of the three weeks of
preparation. Now the dignity of the Holy Sacrament appeared to her so
very great, that she thought a year would be too little to make ready
the chamber of her heart; and thinking how she could make the most of
the short time allowed her, she determined not to go to bed for that
time but to remain in prayer and meditation all night, that she might
make the weeks longer; for indeed, she was so simply impressed with the
conviction of her own vileness, that she dreaded lest the Sacred Host
should disappear, or some other token of Divine displeasure should be
evinced, if she approached without much preparation and examination of
heart. So, as we have said, she never went to bed; but remained kneeling
and praying all night, examining her innocent conscience, and going over
a world of resolutions and forms of preparation, which she believed
were necessary to be got through in the time. It was a child's simple
thought;--we love Dominica all the better for the childishness that
forgot that its excellent resolve was an impossible one for flesh and
blood to keep;--for very often the poor little girl was conquered by
weariness, and fell asleep in the midst of her long prayers, and in
spite of her manful efforts to keep awake; and then she would try to
rouse herself with the thought of her preparation for Communion, and
begin all over again, with a kind of nervous terror that the time would
be too short after all.

At length Holy Week came, and her mother took her to Florence to hear
the preaching of the Passion at the great church of St. Reparata. It was
a new life to Dominica: seated by her mother's side, she drank in every
word of the impassioned eloquence of the preacher; and with her usual
innocence, believed that Christ would really visibly appear, and suffer
before the eyes of the people as He did on Calvary. And when the
preacher said, "yesterday He was betrayed," and "to-day He is led to
death," she believed he spoke literally; for she had not learnt to
understand metaphors better than when, a child of four years old, she
had desired to know the kind of bed that the angels slept on. And,
indeed, the spectacle was given to her eyes, and she saw the scene of
the Crucifixion, and how Mary stood beneath the Cross, and how Nicodemus
took down the Sacred Body and laid it in her arms. She saw it, as it
were, in the midst of the crowd of people who stood round her, and
wondered how they looked so unconcerned; and she herself longed to push
her way through them to get nearer to her dying Lord; but the crowd kept
her back. Then, when she got back to her own room at home, she knelt
down to think of what she had witnessed; and the Blessed Virgin appeared
to her, and taught her that it had been but a vision, and one revealed
to her alone, and not to the people. Dominica then told her all her
fears that her preparation had been too short; that our Lord would
certainly never allow her to come to Him; and that she was so unworthy
and unfit to communicate, she should drive Him out of the church. But
Mary comforted her, and assured her that the tears of contrition she had
shed were all the preparation He required.

When Dominica heard this she was a little consoled; yet her fear lest
the Sacred Host should indeed fly from her as unworthy was so great,
that she spent Holy Saturday in incessant prayer, promising pilgrimages,
fasts on bread and water, and every devotion she could remember, if only
our Lord would deign to remain with her on the following day. Thus the
whole night passed, and in the morning she went, pale and trembling to
the church to receive Holy Communion with her mother.

Her agitation increased every moment; but at length it was her turn to
go up to the alter steps. She did so, and the priest came to her and
pronounced the customary words; but she did not seem to hear him: he
bent down over her to rouse her from her stupor; and it was not till
he had shaken her by her dress that she was sufficiently recovered to
receive. Yet this was not an emotion of terror, but an ecstasy of joy;
for at that moment her fears and scruples had been removed by the sight
of the Sacred Host, not flying from her as she had feared, but shining
like a glorious sun, whose brilliant rays overpowered her by their
excessive lustre.

It would be tedious to give in detail any thing like a faithful
narration of the ecstasies with which from this time she was favoured
every time she communicated. They were so wonderful and so numerous,
that we are assured she made a vow by which she obliged herself never to
move from the spot where she knelt; and that she did this in order to
control the impulse which urged her to cast herself at the feet of her
Lord, whom she saw in so glorious a shape whenever the Sacred Host was
elevated before her eyes.

Time went on, and Dominica was no longer a child. With womanhood came
the cares and charge of the entire family; for her mother, seeing
her grave, diligent, and prudent, left every thing in her hands, and
troubled herself with none of the household duties. With unmurmuring
obedience Dominica accepted every thing that was laid on her; she swept
and washed the house, cooked the food, washed the clothes, looked after
the garden and the horses, and saw to every thing which was sent to the
market. Long before break of day she had to be up to load the mules, and
give them in charge to her brother Leonard. When they came home late in
the evening, it was she, tired with her innumerable labours, who had to
take them to the stable and make up their stalls. Not a moment of her
time but was filled up with hard bodily work and fatigue; yet, thanks to
the habits of her childhood, she knew how to infuse into all these the
spirit of prayer; and her incessant occupations never put a stop to the
devotions and austerities which she had accustomed herself to practise;
nay, she found means to make them assist her in her mortification. She
contrived two crosses of wood garnished with sharp nails, which she
constantly wore in such a way, that at every movement of the body, in
washing, sweeping, and working in the garden, the nails pressed into the
flesh; and so constantly reminded her of the sufferings of her Lord,
even when externally engaged in the commonest employments of her peasant
life.

But in spite of the way in which she strove to do all in and for God,
she secretly sighed after the retirement of the desert or the cloister,
and for space and time to pour out her soul in that fulness of
contemplation and love which swelled like a deep ocean within it. When
she was fifteen, she accidentally heard the history of St. Mary Magdalen
for the first time; and the account of her retirement and long penance
in the desert of Marseilles made an impression on her mind which was
never effaced. She longed to imitate her, and to find some secret place
where she might commence a similar life. Believing this desire to be
the vocation of God, she accordingly determined on the experiment; and
secretly leaving her mother's house one night, she went on foot to a
neighbouring mountain, and entered a thick wood, where she hoped to find
some cavern where she might take up her abode. Her first adventure was
the meeting with a wolf; but Dominica knelt down on the earth, not
without some secret emotions of terror, and recommended herself to God;
after which she rose, and commanded the animal in God's name to depart
without hurting her, which he did, and she pursued her wav without
further alarm. At length, near the Valle del Monte, she found such a
spot as she was in search of. There was a grotto sunk in the rocky side
of the mountain, and near its mouth ran a stream of crystal water.
It was the very picture of a hermitage; and Dominica's happiness was
complete. She immediately prepared to take up her night's lodging in her
grotto. But alas! picturesque and inviting as it seemed, it was very
small; so small, that when the fervent little devotee had crawled into
it, and knelt down to give vent to her joy and thankfulness, she found
it impossible to get her whole body into its shelter; but her feet
remained outside, and what was worse, dipping into the cold water of the
stream. These inconveniences, however, were neither cared for nor even
noticed by Dominica. She was alone with God, and that was enough for
her. Three days and nights she spent in her little cavern, absorbed in
ecstatic contemplation, and without food of any kind; but on the third
day a voice spoke to her, and roused her from her long trance of silent
happiness. "Dominica," it said, "rise and come forth; I have already
forgiven thee thy sins." At these words she rose and left her cavern,
and beheld a beautiful sight. The Valle del Monte was before her, at she
had seen it the evening of her arrival; there was not a human habitation
to be seen, nothing but the green woods which clothed the mountain side,
and the clear waters of the little stream, and the rocky summits of the
hills which rose above the trees. But all these objects were now lit up
by a wonderful light, brighter than that of the sun which fell on them
from heaven. It grew every moment more and more dazzling, and then she
saw in the midst the form of her Divine Lord, attended by his Blessed
Mother and a vast company of angels. He spoke again, "Dominica, what
seekest thou here, amid these rocks and woods?" "I have been seeking
Thee, O Lord," she replied, "and it seems to me that I have found Thee."
"But," returned her Spouse, "when I chose thee for my divine espousal,
it was not to do thine own will, nor to enjoy aught else than My good
pleasure, in doing which thou shalt alone find peace. I have not called
thee to the quietude of the desert, but that thou shouldst help me to
bear My cross in the great city yonder,--the heavy cross which sinners
make for Me by their sins. Hereafter shalt thou see My face in heaven
and contemplate Me there for ever; but for the present moment, return to
thy mother's house, and wait for the manifestation of My will." "I go,"
said Dominica; "yet I know not what I can do for Thee in the world; I am
nothing but a poor peasant girl, who have been brought up among beasts
and oxen. Moreover, if I go back, my mother will certainly beat me, for
I have been away three days." "Fear nothing," was the answer; "for an
angel has taken thy form, and they do not know of thine absence."

Then Dominica found herself transported, she knew not how, back to her
own little room in her mother's house; and whilst she still wondered,
she heard her brother's voice calling hastily to her from below to come
and help unload the mules. Dominica obeyed; but she was not a little
confused, when on coming down he began to ask her about some money
which he had given her the evening before. She knew of no money,--for,
indeed, it had been given not to her, but to the angel in her likeness;
and she would have been sorely puzzled how to satisfy his demands,
if the angel had not discovered to her the place where the money was
placed. And so her absence remained a secret to the family; nor were the
circumstances ever revealed, until many years after, when, a short time
before her death, her confessor obliged her under obedience to reveal
all the graces with which God had favoured her.

At length, in her twentieth year, Dominica resolved to leave the world
altogether and enter religion. Her wish was not opposed by her mother,
and she entered as lay-sister in the Augustinian convent at Florence.
The sisters received her very warmly, for her character for holiness
and her discretion and industry were well known to them; and they
immediately employed her, much to their own satisfaction, in the garden
and kitchen; and kept her so constantly and laboriously occupied, that
poor Dominica found that she had even less time for her exercises of
prayer than when at home. She endeavoured to make up for the loss by
secretly rising at night; but when this was discovered, the Superior,
with a mistaken charity, would send her to bed again, saying that after
all her hard day's work she needed rest; not perceiving that the real
rest she required was time for her soul to commune with God. Dominica,
therefore, became very unhappy; and one day as she was digging in the
garden she heard a mournful voice speak plainly and articulately by her
side, saying, "Ah, My spouse! why hast thou left Me thus?" And it seemed
to her that it was the voice of her Lord, who tenderly expostulated
with her for suffering the intercourse which had so closely bound them
together to be broken and interrupted by so many occupations. She threw
the spade on the ground, and sitting down, covered her face with her
hands and wept bitterly. Was it never to end, this life of many cares?
It seemed as though her soul, which was struggling to rise into the
serene and quiet atmosphere of contemplation, was ever destined to be
kept down amid cares and labours from which she could not escape, and
which yet seemed, as it were, to separate her from her Lord. So long as
it had been His will, she had never resisted nor complained; but now it
was not His will. He had said so; and the sweet sorrowful tone pierced
her very heart, as she dwelt on the words, and the accent in which they
were uttered,--"Ah! why hast thou left Me thus?" And as she wept and
prayed and sorrowed, yet saw no way of escape, the same voice spoke
again; but now they were words of comfort and encouragement: "Be
at peace, Dominica; God will follow His own will, and you shall be
comforted." And, indeed, a short time after she was attacked by a
sickness, which compelled the sisters to send her back to her mother's
house; and though on recovering she returned to them, yet she was again
taken ill, and again forced to leave. A third time her mother took her
back to the convent; but Dominica knew that it was not God's wish that
she should receive the Augustinian habit: and the nuns themselves seemed
to feel that this was the case; though, as they well knew her worth and
sanctity, it cost them many regrets before they could consent to her
finally leaving their community. She returned home, therefore; and now,
with the advice of her confessor, entered on a life of strict religious
retirement in her mother's house, until the designs of God regarding her
should be more plainly manifested.

The manner of this new life was not a little remarkable. Next to the
room where her mother slept was a little rubbish-closet, scarcely large
enough to stand in; this she cleared from its rubbish, and chose for her
cell. The constant sickness and infirmities which she suffered after
her illnesses at the convent prevented her from going out at night and
contemplating the heavens, as had been her custom when a child. But she
retained her old love for them, and contrived to make a little heaven of
blue paper on the roof of her closet, and to cover it with gold stars;
which, though but a poor substitute for an Italian sky--that sea of deep
liquid sapphire, wherein float the bright stars, looking down like the
eyes of the seraphim,--yet doubtless had its charm to the simple taste
of its designer; and at any rate it reminded her, during the hours of
her prayer, of the beautiful days of her childhood, when the heavens
opened to her wondering eyes, and she became familiar with its
inhabitants, and thought to get nearer to them and to her Lord by
climbing on the roof of the house. Then at one end of the closet was a
small altar, and on it a crib, and a representation of Mary, and the
Divine Child lying on the straw,--much after the fashion of those still
in common use among the peasants of Italy; for she always bore a special
devotion to the mystery of the Infancy. A stool before the altar, a
wooden bench, and two boxes, completed the furniture of her cell.
There was no bed: she allowed herself but two hours' sleep; and this
refreshment, such as it was, was taken on the floor, with her head
leaning on the stool,--when she lay down in this way, the straightness
of the closet preventing her from taking any position that was not
painful or constrained.

Yet this strange prison, which she never left save to go to the
neighbouring Church of the Bridgetines to hear Mass, was a paradise in
Dominica's eyes; for here, at least, she was left at peace and with God.
She kept a continual silence, and divided her time between prayer and
work with her needle; and so perfect a mistress was she in all kinds of
embroidery, that she obtained large sums of money by her labour. This
she left in her mother's hands, who was thus well satisfied to leave her
undisturbed in the possession of her little closet, whilst the profits
of her daily labours kept the house. The austerity she practised
extended to every kind of bodily denial. Her food was bread and water,
taken so sparingly, that we are assured she sometimes spent a week
without drinking at all: when she ate any thing, it was on her knees, as
she bound herself ever to accompany the necessary refreshment of the
body with interior meditation on the Passion. After some little time,
she was moved to give the proceeds of her labour no longer to her
mother, but to distribute them in alms to the poor; and feeling this
inspiration to be the will of God, she immediately executed it, greatly
to her mother's dissatisfaction and her own discomfort; for all the
indulgence and toleration she had received at her hands so long as the
profits of her work were at the disposal of the family, were now turned
into sharp reproaches. Dominica, however, cared very little for the
sufferings which her resolution brought on her; for God did not fail to
evince His pleasure in many ways.

She was accustomed to wear the Bridgetine habit, with the consent of the
nuns; not as belonging to their community, but because it was deemed
advisable that she should have the protection and sanction of some
outward religious habit in her present mode of life. As she returned one
morning from church, a miserable beggar met her and asked an alms She
had nothing to give him; yet, rather than send him away without any
relief, she took the veil from her head, and giving it to him, continued
her way. But presently she felt a great scruple at what she had done;
the veil was part of her religious habit; and she accused herself of a
great fault in appearing in the public roads without it, so as possibly
to scandalise the passers by, and be taken for one who mocked the holy
garb of religion. But as these thoughts passed in her mind, there met
her a man, the surpassing beauty and nobleness of whose countenance
revealed him to be her Lord. He carried in his hand the veil she had
just given away; and throwing it over her head,--" Henceforth," He said,
"My spouse, shalt thou have the poverty thou desirest, and shalt live
for ever on alms, and as a pilgrim in the world, as I did." From this
time she redoubled her labours in order to obtain large means for the
purpose of charity, and besides this, spent much of her time in nursing
and tending the sick, as well as relieving them by her alms; and
whenever she did this, her own sicknesses and pains were for a time
suspended, and she found herself endowed with strength sufficient for
the most extraordinary fatigues and exertions.

It was during her residence at home, in her twenty-fourth year, that
she received the sacred stigmata. These were not bloody, as in so many
cases; but the exact form of the nails appeared in the flesh of the
hands and feet; the head protruding on the upper part, and the point
coming out in the palms and soles. The crown of thorns was not
visible in like manner, though the pain of her head in the part which
corresponded to its position was excessive; but very often, in after
years, her spiritual children in the monastery of her foundation saw, as
she prayed, how the crown appeared round her head in light, and bright
rays came out from it and formed its points. Dominica strove to conceal
the favour she had received, by wearing long sleeves to hide her hands;
but the nails were so large and distinct, that it was impossible to
prevent the fact from being known and observed by many. After a while,
in answer to her earnest prayer, this extraordinary formation of the
nails in the flesh disappeared, and the scars of the wounds alone
remained, causing her excessive agony, which redoubled every Friday and
during Passion-tide. At length, in her forty-fourth year, the wounds
became invisible; but the pain of them continued during her whole life.

She remained at home for three years after the reception of the sacred
stigmata. They were years of continual suffering and persecution. The
violence and coarse selfishness of her mother's nature was vented on her
in every way and on all occasions. She was made the object of the most
bitter reviling, and had to listen to a torrent of abuse, and what was
worse, of blasphemous cursing, whenever she appeared in her presence.
Once her mother threw her so violently against the wall as to cause her
to rupture a blood vessel; yet she bore all meekly and uncomplaining,
until at length some friends who lived at Florence, having asked her
to take up her abode with them, it was revealed to her that she should
remove thither, which she accordingly did. The change of residence,
however, brought her little or no relief from persecution; for after a
few months, the women with whom she was staying, moved by some jealousy,
or disgusted at the retired manner in which she lived, and refused to go
about with them or join in their way of life, accused her of every
crime they could imagine, and even attempted to poison her. Her mother,
hearing of the sufferings to which she was exposed, was moved with a
very natural contrition for her own cruelty to her, and set out for
Florence to see her, and if possible remove her from the house.

Unable to obtain admission, she had recourse to one of the canons of the
city, and implored him to take her daughter under his protection, and
defend her against the cruel restraint and persecution to which she was
exposed in her present residence. By his interference she was allowed to
leave; and a charitable gentleman of Florence, named Giovanni, to whom
the circumstances of the case were known, received her into his own
home, where she--lived very peaceably for some time. In all these most
painful and disturbing changes in her life, Dominica's tranquillity and
resignation remained unmoved. She knew that the will of God had its own
designs regarding her, and that these were not yet manifested; but until
they were, she was content with whatever was assigned her, and received
ill treatment, abandonment, and the desolate destiny of passing from one
strange home to another, with an astonishing calmness and indifference.
Her position in Giovanni's house was a very singular one. His wife was a
weak and indolent woman, and with little religious character about her;
she was the first of the family, however, over whom Dominica's influence
was felt. In a short time her habits of vanity and self-indulgence were
laid aside; and she began to pray night and morning, and to attend Mass,
which till then she had neglected. Then one of the sons, who was to all
outward seeming given up to the thoughtless dissipation of his age, and
had always neglected his religious duties, was won over by her, and
began a new life. Giovanni himself soon saw what sort of a person he had
brought into his house, and that he was in fact entertaining an angel
unawares. He therefore insisted on her taking the entire government of
the family; and Dominica consented, with the characteristic simplicity
which would have made her undertake the government of a kingdom, if her
guardian-angel had assured her it was the wish of God. Whilst she ruled
and directed them, however, in things spiritual, she herself did the
servile work of the house, and waited on them in the humblest and most
submissive manner. She never affected any other position than that o£ a
simple peasant girl; but every one who came within her influence felt
its power over them, and owned her as their mistress and mother.

It was whilst living in this way that God revealed to her that she was
no longer to remain concealed and retired from the world; but that He
was about to make her the spiritual mother of many daughters, and to
do great things for His own glory through her means. Now Dominica was
naturally of a very timid and bashful disposition; and when she heard of
being brought before the eyes of the world, and called on to teach and
guide others, she knew not what to think. Her diffidence, and what we
should call shyness, was naturally so great, that she would turn pale if
she had to speak to any one she did not know familiarly, and always at
such times suffered from violent beatings of the heart. Therefore, when
she considered the great things laid before her, she felt sad and a
little frightened, and spoke to God with her usual simple frankness,
saying, "O my Lord, how can this be? I am nothing but a vile peasant;
the heart in my breast is a poor contemptible thing, that has no courage
in it; my blood is peasant's blood; I am not fit for these great things
unless you change it." Then God answered, saying, "And I will change it,
and will give you a noble and magnanimous heart; wherefore prepare for
keen and terrible sufferings; for it is by them that your heart and
blood is to be purged and renovated, and fitted for My service in the
eyes of men."

Scarcely had the vision ended, when Dominica felt the approach of the
sufferings which had been promised; pain in every part of her body, a
continual hemorrhage of blood, which seemed to drain every vein, and
deadly faintings and weakness, reduced her almost to extremity. Then,
after she had languished in this state for many weeks, a vision appeared
to her of the same mysterious and significant kind as that related in
the life of St. Catherine of Sienna. Our Lord took her heart from her
breast, and supplied its place with one of burning fire. She rose
from her sick-bed, and felt her whole nature renewed; every sense was
quickened, and the powers of her mind enlarged and ennobled;--nay, her
very body seemed already to share in the glory of the resurrection. It
gave out a wonderful odour, which communicated itself to every thing
which it touched. Her sight was so miraculously keen that she could see
to embroider in the darkest night, and many _new_ senses seemed given
her; whilst those of smell and touch and hearing were also renewed in an
equally extraordinary degree. But, at the same time, she lost the bodily
vigour which had before enabled her to go through so many hard days'
labour; and with her new heart she seemed also to have acquired a new
and delicate bodily temperament which utterly incapacitated her for
work, whilst she seemed to be wholly immersed in divine and interior
contemplation. A strange eloquence was now heard to flow from her lips,
the infused wisdom and science of the saints was in her words; nay, she
would often quote and explain sentences of the holy Fathers, or of the
Scriptures, which it is certain she had never read or heard read. In
short, God had bestowed on her the gift which He deemed necessary to
fit her for the design He had regarding her; and still, with all the
marvellous spiritual riches which she had acquired, she retained in her
ways and thoughts and habits the old simplicity of the peasant child.

The first of the spiritual daughters given her by God was Giovanni's
eldest child, who at her persuasion embraced the life of religion,
and placed herself under her obedience. The second soon followed her
example; and soon after a third. Another daughter, Catherine, still
remained; like her mother, she was of a thoughtless and indolent
character, much given to the vanities of her age, and the foolish
pleasures of the world about her. She was accustomed to ridicule and
mock at the conversion of her three sisters, and to hinder and disturb
them in their religious practices; in short, she was about as hopeless
a subject for Dominica to exercise her influence upon as might well be
imagined. But one Christmas-day Dominica called her into her little
oratory, and first turning to the crucifix, and spending a moment in
silent prayer, she laid her hand on her breast, and said, "O hard and
evil heart, be softened and yield to thy God; and bend to my will, which
is, that thou be the heart of a saint!" Three days after this Catherine
presented herself with her sisters, and implored Dominica to take her
also under her teaching to convert the brothers; but by degrees she
succeeded in persuading all to devote themselves to a holy and religious
life; and the eldest, taking the habit of St. Dominic, lived and died in
the order with the reputation of sanctity.

Her confessor about this time counselled her herself to take the habit
of the third order; and the matter having been agreed upon, he provided
a tunic and mantle of the usual kind for her clothing, and appointed a
certain day for her to come to the Convent of St. Mark and receive it
with the customary ceremonies. The circumstances which followed have
a very marvellous character, yet there seems no reason to doubt the
accuracy and reality of what is narrated. We are told that, on the
morning of the day appointed, she being in prayer, was rapt in ecstasy;
and in this state she saw St. Catherine and St. Dominic enter her room
with the white tunic in their hands. St. Dominic himself gave it to
her, pronouncing the words and prayer according to the rite of his
order,--the responses being given by St. Catherine and the angels; and
her guardian- angel gave the aspersion of holy water, first to the
habit, and then to her; and St. Catherine received her as her daughter,
and gave her the kiss of welcome. When she recovered from her ecstasy,
she found herself really clothed in the sacred habit which had been thus
wonderfully given her; and, full of joy, she appeared with it in public
in the afternoon of the same day. This was a cause of great displeasure
to the authorities of the order, who complained that she had assumed
their habit without being regularly admitted into their society. The
affair was brought before the Master-General, at that time Vio di
Cajetan; and the complaint appearing just, he called on her either to
lay it aside, or to explain the authority by which she wore it. The
account she gave of the whole matter so satisfied the Archbishop of
Florence of her sincerity and holiness, that he undertook to mediate in
her behalf; and it was at length agreed that she should keep the habit,
provided that she and her companions wore a red cross on the left
shoulder, to denote that she had been clothed without the sanction
of the ordinary authorities of the order, and was not subject to its
jurisdiction; and, in fact, they did so wear it for six years, when, the
Convent of the Holy Cross being established, they were afterwards fully
admitted to the rights and privileges of the order.

After this point was settled, Dominica's next step was to retire with
her little band of followers (which now included several others besides
the daughters of Giovanni) to a small house, where they lived a regular
life, supporting themselves by the labour of their hands. In time their
gains increased to so wonderful a degree, that they found themselves
enabled to purchase a more convenient residence, and then to enlarge
it, and finally to rebuild it in the form of a cross. In short, in the
course of a few years she saw herself at the head of a large community,
possessed of a regular and extensive house, with a church attached to
it, without any other means having been employed in its erection than
the money which she and her sisters had earned by their own needlework.
The Archbishop of Florence (the celebrated Julius de Medici, afterwards
Pope) was so struck with the manifest expression of God's will in the
whole matter, that he obtained permission from Leo X. for the regular
foundation of the convent under the rule of St. Dominic. They were all
solemnly clothed on the 18th of November, 1515, and proceeded to the
election of their prioress. Their choice of course fell on Dominica, but
she absolutely refused to accept the office; and used a power given her
by the papal brief to nominate another sister in her place, whilst she
determined to retain for herself the rank and duties of a lay-sister.

The ceremony of the clothing and election being therefore over, she made
a solemn renunciation of the house and all it contained into the hands
of the Archbishop-Vicar. Then she left the sisters, and went to the
kitchen; and coming there, she sent all the other lay-sisters away,
saying, it belonged to her to do what had to be done for the community
for the first week of their settlement. She cooked the dinner, and sent
it to the refectory; and whilst the sisters were sitting at table, she
entered the room with a number of broken pieces of earthenware tied
round her neck, and knelt humbly in the middle of them all, as one doing
penance. The feelings of her children at this sight may be imagined;
there was a universal stir; three or four rose from table, and would
have placed themselves by her side. The prioress endeavoured to restore
order; but the meal was broken by the sobs and sighs of the whole
community. When dinner was over, she tried to return to her work in the
kitchen; but the feelings of the sisters could no longer be restrained;
they ran after her, and threw themselves at her feet. "Mother, mother,"
they cried, "it is a mother we want, not a saint; a guide, and not a
servant,--this cannot be suffered." But Dominica tried to quell them,
and to persuade them to let it be even as she desired; her entreaties,
however, were in vain. They left her, and with the Prioress met together
to consider what should be done; and it was determined that the Vicar
should be called on to use his authority with Dominica, and bring her
under obedience to take the office of Superior,--which, in short, she
was compelled to do, with the title of _Vicaress_; for she persevered in
refusing to be instituted Prioress.

When the time came for the profession of the new community, Dominica
obtained permission from the Pope to defer her own profession; only to
bind herself by a simple vow to wear the habit of the third order, and
keep the rule of St. Dominic. Does the reader wish to know the motive
she had for soliciting this singular privilege? He must go back some
twenty years, and recall the time when the story of St. Mary Magdalen's
retirement to the deserts of Marseilles had sent the little peasant
child into the woods, to spend three happy days and nights in a hermit's
cave too small to contain her, but which she considered as a Paradise;
and where she would have been well content to have remained all her
life, if such had been the wish of God. At thirty years of age, Dominica
was still the same. Her simplicity had a touch of what one might call
romance about it, and she had never forgotten her great project of a
hermitage. She would not be bound to the Convent of the Holy Cross
therefore, because she still hoped the time might come when she might
find out the desert of Marseilles, and realise the life of penance and
retirement, the account of which had made so deep an impression on
her imagination. When she saw herself threatened with a perpetual
appointment as Vicaress, she accordingly resolved to fly at once,
and did actually escape by one of the windows, and set out towards
Marseilles in the habit of a pilgrim. The community again had
recourse to the Vicar, who sent a peremptory order for her return under
pain of excommunication; and the messenger who carried it found her laid
up in a little village with a swelling of both feet, which had put a
speedy stop to her pilgrimage, and which she herself acknowledged to be
the declaration that it was not God's will she should proceed in
her design. She was therefore compelled to return and reassume the
government of her convent, in which office she continued until she died
in 1553.

With the circumstances which attended her death we must conclude. For
months she had lain on a miserable pallet, unable to move or rise, and
with the appearance of a living skeleton. But when Easter Day came, she
felt it was the last she should spend with her Sisters, and determined
to keep the festival with them all in community. She therefore caused
herself to be carried to the chair, where she communicated with them.
She took her dinner in the refectory, and afterwards held a chapter,
where, after briefly and touchingly exhorting them to fidelity to their
Spouse, she gave them her last blessing. Then, in order to assure them
in the peaceable possession of their convent, she determined to make her
solemn profession, which had never yet been done,--in conformity, we
are assured, to the express revealed permission of God. She lingered on
until the following August, and on the 5th of that month fell into her
agony. When the last moment came, she raised herself on the pallet, and
extended her arms in the form of the cross. Her face shone with a bright
and ruddy colour, and her eyes were dazzling with a supernatural light;
and so, without any other death-struggle than a gentle sigh, she
expired, at the age of eighty years. Her life has been written at length
by F. Ignatius Nente; but the principal facts were drawn up by the
Abbess of Florence very shortly after her decease, at the instance
of the Grand Duchess of Lorraine, and forwarded to Rome, to form the
process for her beatification.






ANNE DE MONTMORENCY.


ANNE DE MONTMORENCY, THE SOLITARY OF THE PYRENEES.

ABOUT the year 1666, a young lady of the family of Montmorency, one of
the most ancient and illustrious in France, disappeared at the age of
fifteen from her father's house, because projects were being formed for
her establishment, and she believed herself called to a different state
of life. After having in vain endeavoured to alter the views of her
family respecting her, she entreated permission one day to make a
pilgrimage to Mount Valerian, near Paris, where were the stations of our
Lord's Passion. When she reached that which represents our Lord on the
cross, she implored Him whom she had chosen for her spouse, with many
tears, to save her from the danger of being ever unfaithful to Him, and
to teach her how to live from thenceforth as His own bride, unknown,
and crucified with Him, with her body and soul given up entirely to His
charge, and her whole being abandoned to the care of Providence.

With her mind full of these holy thoughts, she came down from the
mountain, and without well knowing what she was going to do, she turned
her steps towards the Bois de Boulogne; and when she reached the
Abbey of Longchamp, feeling a strong impulse to enter the church, she
dismissed for some hours the confidential attendants by whom she was
accompanied, saying that she had still many prayers to recite; and
accordingly they left her without suspicion to finish her devotions. No
sooner were they out of sight than she left the church; and committing
herself to our Blessed Lord and His Holy Mother, plunged into the
recesses of the wood. She was following by mere chance an unfrequented
path, when she met a poor woman, who asked alms of her. This encounter
appeared to her an indication of the will of Heaven: she formed her plan
in an instant, and began to put it into execution, by taking the clothes
of the poor beggar, and giving her own in exchange; and to complete
the disguise, she stained her hands and face with clay, and tried to
disfigure herself as much as possible. She then turned in the direction
contrary to that in which she thought pursuit would first be made;
walked all the rest of the day, and found herself in the evening in a
village situate on the Seine, some leagues from Paris. There she was met
by some charitable ecclesiastics, who, touched by her youth, and the
dangers to which it exposed her, took an interest in her situation, and
found her first a temporary asylum, and afterwards a situation with a
lady in the neighbourhood, who was very rich, and whose service was safe
and respectable, as she was devout and regular in her conduct; but she
was a difficult person to live with, being of a sharp and worrying
temper, so that she had never been able to keep long either a man or
maid-servant. Into this house, however, Jane Margaret, by which name
only she was known, entered as lady's-maid; but as no servant but
herself could remain, she found herself at the age of sixteen obliged to
be cook and housemaid and porteress all at once. What consoled and even
rejoiced her in this situation was the opportunity it afforded her of
satisfying her thirst for crosses and humiliations, and also her freedom
from all intrusion of idle curiosity, so that she felt her secret safe.
She endured all the fatigues of so laborious a situation, and all
the caprices of a harshness in temper, with unalterable patience and
sweetness until her mistress's death; that is to say, for the space of
ten years. And so faultless was her, conduct during all this time, that
her mistress, on her death bed, publicly begged her pardon for all
she had made her suffer, and insisted on leaving her the sum of four
thousand francs in addition to her wages, of which she had as yet
scarcely received any thing. Jane Margaret was with difficulty persuaded
to accept this present, and when it was forced upon her, she distributed
it among the poor, with the exception of a very small sum which she
kept for her immediate wants. Feeling, however, that such extraordinary
liberality on the part of a mere maid-servant would excite suspicion
and endanger her secret, she resolved to escape the peril as soon as
possible.

Accordingly, on her return from the funeral of her mistress, seeing the
boat for Auxerre, she threw herself into it, without a moment's delay;
and soon after her arrival in that town succeeded in finding another
situation which she considered suitable. It was in the house of a master
joiner, who was greatly esteemed both for skill in his profession and
for general probity, and who was also clever in carving.

The early education of Jane Margaret made her very useful to her new
master, who, in return, taught her how to handle the chisel, and she
very soon became sufficiently expert to make wooden clocks. In this
town, too, she was happy enough to find a director experienced in the
ways of God, who confirmed her in the resolution she had taken. In about
a year's time, however, she lost him; and despairing of finding another
to whom she could give her entire confidence, she determined to return
to Paris, in the hope of finding there a guide such as she required,
believing herself sufficiently forgotten at this distance of time to run
no risk of being recognised. She set forth, therefore, on the road to
the capital on foot, and asking alms; for she had taken care before
leaving Auxerre to give to the poor all that she had earned.

On her arrival in Paris she placed herself among the poor who ask the
charity of the faithful at the church-doors; and begged every morning
enough to maintain her for the day, for which purpose very little
sufficed. All the rest of her time she passed in prayer in the churches,
which she never left except at the approach of night. One day as she
was asking alms, according to her custom, at the door of a church, it
pleased Providence that she should address herself to a very pious and
charitable lady, who kept a school at Château-Fort, and who was under
the direction of a holy religious named the Father de Bray. At the first
sight of the young and modest beggar, the virtuous schoolmistress felt
moved, and discerning in her something which did not accord with her
apparent state of life, ventured to ask her whether it was from sickness
that she was reduced to that condition. Jane Margaret only replied that
she believed herself to be fulfilling the will of God; which answer
increased the interest she had already excited in the mind of the pious
lady, who told her that in her state of weakness the air of the country
would do her good, and offered to take her to Château-Fort. At the same
time she spoke to her of Father de Bray, whose name and merit were well
known in Paris. This last consideration was sufficient to determine Jane
Margaret to follow a person whose sentiments were so congenial with her
own.

As soon as Father de Bray became acquainted with her, he discovered in
her one of those wonders which are wrought from time to time by grace
for the confusion of the world, and set himself to second the designs of
Heaven concerning this privileged soul. She too, on her side, convinced
that she had at last found a guide such as she had been long seeking,
bestowed on him her confidence without reserve, and continued to
correspond with him as long as he lived.

In process of time, drawn more than ever by the Spirit of God, she left
Château-Fort to go and seek a solitude hidden from all men; but it was
almost two years before she could find what she desired. She traversed
several provinces seeking for an asylum out of the reach of every
human eye, until at last she arrived at the Pyrenees, where she
established herself in a wild recess, which she names in her letters
"the solitude of the rocks." It was a little space of a pentagonal
shape, shut in by five rocks, which formed a kind of cross, and rendered
the little spot of ground which they enclosed not quite inaccessible,
but altogether invisible from without. From the foot of the highest of
these rocks there gushed a spring of excellent water, and its summit
was a kind of observatory, from whence she could espy any intruders who
might venture to approach her abode. There were three grottoes at the
base of the rocks, one of which was a deep and winding cavern; this she
made her cell, and the two others her oratories. This solitude was at
least half a league from any road, and surrounded by a thick forest, or
rather by a brake, so tangled that, to get through it, the traveller
must force his way among thistles and briers, by a path which seemed
impracticable to any but wild beasts. Our solitary, however, met with
none of these, except a bear, who was more afraid than she, and ran
away. She found in her retreat shrubs which bore a fruit much like
damsons; and the rocks were covered with medlar-trees, the fruit of
which was excellent. The cold was not intense even in the heart of
winter, while the heat of summer was tempered by the shade of the rocks,
and of the woods which surrounded it. All these details are given in the
letters of the solitary herself to her director, Father de Bray.

In this retirement she began to lead a life angelic rather than human;
looking upon this earth as the blessed do from the heights of heaven,
and consecrating every pulsation of her heart to God. For some time she
used to go twice a week to the village to ask alms; but by degrees she
weaned herself from the use of bread, and at last lived entirely on the
vegetables and wild fruits which grew in the neighbourhood of her abode.

Her spiritual necessities were more difficult to supply. Not wishing to
risk being recognised, she was obliged to use many precautions whenever
she allowed herself the consolation of participating in the divine
mysteries; but Providence had prepared for her a resource. At a little
distance from the forest were two religious houses, one of men, the
other of women. There she went to hear Mass and receive holy communion;
and, in order to escape remark, she went sometimes to the church of the
convent, sometimes to that of the monastery; and for her confessor she
selected a good curate of the neighbourhood, who simply heard what she
had to say, and asked her no questions. She had fixed for herself a rule
of life, which she followed exactly: at five in the morning she rose,
winter and summer; continued in prayer till six, when she recited prime,
and either went to Mass or heard it in spirit; and then read some
chapters of Holy Scripture. These exercises lasted till eight; after
which she devoted two hours to manual labour, either mending her
clothes, or practising sculpture, or cultivating a little garden which
she had made round her habitation. At ten she recited tierce, sext, and
none; and then, prostrate at the foot of her crucifix, she examined her
conscience, and imposed on herself penances in proportion to the number
and grievousness of her faults. All this lasted till about noon, when
she took the only meal of the day, and after it her recreation, which
consisted, in fine weather, of a walk to the summit of the rocks, where
she contemplated the greatness of God in His works, and praised and
blessed His infinite perfections in pious songs which she knew by heart,
or with which Divine love inspired her at the moment.

On her return home she made her spiritual reading, usually from the
Imitation, followed by an affectionate prayer, in which she poured out
before God all the necessities of her soul; but asked of Him nothing but
the accomplishment of His own good pleasure. Then she resumed her manual
labour until four in the afternoon, after which she recited Vespers and
the entire Rosary, accompanied or followed by pious considerations. This
exercise brought her on to eight o'clock, when she went through the
devotion of the Stations in a Calvary which she had built herself, and
performed the penances and mortifications which she had imposed upon
herself. At nine she retired to her cell, and, after a short examination
of conscience, and some vocal prayers, slept till eleven, when she rose
to recite matins, which she knew by heart, and to pray till two,
when she retired again to rest till five. In order to regulate this
distribution of her time, she had made herself a wooden clock. She
made also several other pieces of workmanship, which were admired by
connoisseurs, more especially a Crucifix made out of a single piece
of corneil wood, which she presented to Father de Bray, and which
afterwards fell into the hands of Madaine de Maintenon, who valued it
as a precious relic. She wrought also three other crucifixes, one very
small, which she wore round her neck; another, three feet high, which,
she placed in her cell; and a third, six feet high, which she carved out
of the wood of a fir-tree, which had been struck down by lightning in
the forest, and which she placed in the Calvary she had arranged on the
summit of one of the highest of the rocks which enclosed her habitation.

For her communications with Father de Bray she made use of a wagoner,
who, from time to time, journeyed to and from Paris, and who faithfully
carried her letters, and brought back to her the answers to them,
together with the small sums of money which her director sent her
from time to time, and which she used to procure such things as were
indispensably necessary to her, such as tools for her carving, needles,
thread, worsted, and some pieces of calico and stuff to repair her
garments, which were very simple, but always neat, especially when she
appeared at church.

It may not be uninteresting to see an inventory of her few possessions
which she sent to her spiritual director. A Roman Breviary, which she
recited daily, and which she understood, having learnt Latin in her
childhood; an Imitation; an abridgment of the Saints' Lives; a little
book culled Horloge du Coeur, and another of Devotions to the Blessed
Sacrament. Such was her library. Her workshop contained a supply of
ordinary carpenters' tools, and a few more delicate implements for
carving; while for her personal use she had a few hundreds of pins, some
needles, some grey and white thread, a pair of scissors, and a copper
thimble; two bowls and a cup, all in wood; a hair shirt, and a
discipline. Her wardrobe, as may be supposed, was of the most simple
description, but sufficient for decency and neatness.

Our solitary had but one fear in this peaceful retirement, that of
being discovered; and it was long before her evident sanctity drew the
attention of the people of the village, and excited the curiosity of so
many people, that, in spite of all her precautions, they succeeded, by
dint of constant watching, in finding out, if not absolutely her abode,
at least the rocks which surrounded it. This was quite enough to force
her to seek a more distant solitude.

Impelled, as she said in one of her letters, by an irresistible force,
she transported herself to a distance of twenty leagues, still further
among the Pyrenees, in the direction of Spain. She had dwelt for four
years in the solitude of the rocks, and for three years more she abode
in that which she called the Grot of the Rivulets. It was a place full
of rocks and caverns, the retreat of wild beasts, enormous serpents, and
monstrous lizards, which were the terror of the neighbourhood, so that
none dared approach the spot. But when this barrier of rocks was once
passed, which required good climbing, there was a little smiling valley
enamelled with flowers, and intersected with rivulets from several
springs of living water gushing out from the mountains; there, too, were
several sorts of fruit of very good taste, and a quantity of wild honey,
which the solitary pronounced to be excellent; so that altogether this
abode would have been preferable to her former one of the rocks, if it
had not been for the presence of the wild beasts. But of these Jane
Margaret had no fear, depending on the help of the Lord, who has
promised to give His servants the power of treading on serpents and
scorpions, and of chaining the mouths of lions; and in truth these
animals never disturbed her, though she passed their dens again and
again; it seemed as though they respected her and all that belonged to
her, for they never approached her dwelling, and even spared a little
squirrel which she had found in this wilderness, and taken home with her
for company.

Here, too, as in the neighbourhood of her first solitude, she found a
convent of monks; but this was at a more considerable distance, for she
had three leagues and a half to walk before she could reach it, and that
through tangled thickets; but in this convent she sought a confessor;
the Superior received her with great kindness, believing her to be a
poor country girl, and asking her no questions but such as were suitable
to the rural life he supposed her to be leading. For the holy sacrifice
she went to the hermitage of St. Antony, a league and a half on the
other side of the forest.

When once fixed in this new abode, our solitary peaceably resumed the
course of her accustomed exercises. She arranged for herself two cells
in the hollow of two rocks very near to each other, and in the space
between the two she formed a little chapel, which she delighted in
adorning with verdure and wild flowers. She divided her time, as before,
between labour and prayer, and her trances and ecstasies became more
frequent and more sublime than ever; but her great humility made her
distrust these extraordinary favours of Heaven, and she required to be
set at rest concerning them by her director, with whom she continued to
correspond, and to whom she continued, even to the end, to pour forth
all the secrets of her soul with the simplicity of a child. Her last
letter is dated the 17th of Sept. 1699, and in it she expresses a great
desire to go to Rome in the course of the following year, in order to
gain the indulgence of the jubilee, but at the same time submits her own
judgment entirely to that of him whom she regarded as the interpreter
of the will of Heaven in her regard. Receiving no answer, she suspected
that Father de Bray was no more; and in fact he had died that very year.
She thought herself free to move, and set off for the Holy City, since
which period it has been impossible to gather any trace of her. Whether
she accomplished her pilgrimage, whether she died in Rome or in some
solitude, has never been discovered; as though it pleased Providence to
second, even after her death, the earnest desire of His servant to be
hidden from the sight and knowledge of men; for the tomb, which often
becomes the glory of the friends of God, only set the seal to her
obscurity. At the last day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be made
known, this treasure will stand revealed in the face of the universe.







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