Thus the heresy of the Albigenses, germinating in a soil so well prepared for its reception, and encouraged by so many favoring circumstances, grew to most formidable proportions. It was no trifling thing that the one transalpine nation or province that had emerged from medieval darkness had thrown off all respect for Rome, and that the one modern language, fit for the purposes of poetry and philosophy, was devoted to the propagation of heresy alone. Nothing could be more evident than that this spirit of independence, that was every where raising its menacing front, if not either subjugated or controlled, would revolutionize the whole structure of society, both feudal and ecclesiastical. To control or subjugate the new spirit, was therefore the great problem presented to the church of the thirteenth century. It is easy to see that its solution called for the clearest intelligence, and the most farseeing statesmanship.

Of the terrible crusade organized against the Albigenses, it is not necessary to speak. It is the saddest story in all the annals of a persecuting church, and the world gladly avoids a contemplation of its sickening details. But it is worthy of remark that although Simon de Montfort, and his compeers in crime and cruelty, were strong enough to destroy the heresy, they found themselves entirely unable to suppress that spirit of independence from which the heresy sprung. The Pontiff had demonstrated the strength of the church, but he had also revealed the strength of that spirit of independence that was every where lifting its head in protest. And that spirit would not yield to the sword or the fagot. If exterminated in one locality, it showed itself straightway in another. No temporary success of the church removed the ground of alarm. It was evident therefore that the whole system of ecclesiastical polity needed to be revised and strengthened. The hierarchy had plainly overreached itself, and if it would preserve its supremacy over the consciences of men, there was but one course for it to adopt, and that was to retrace its steps and return to those purer habits of faith and life which had given ‹haracter and success to the primitive church.

It is said that one afternoon in the year 1210 a group of churchmen, in sumptuous apparel, were slowly traversing the

lofty terrace of the Lateran. At their head was one whose eagle eye, and capacious brow announced him as lord and ruler of the church militant. No prouder monarch had ever called the seven hills his own, and no one had ever been surrounded with greater perplexities. He was absorbed in thought, and his reverie seemed to be shaped and shaded by the dark clouds that were rising in different parts of Europe. His dress was studiously simple and it was evident to all that he was revolving in mind the difficulties that beset him in the control of his vast dominions.

In this unconscious condition Innocent found his meditations suddenly interrupted by a group of three or four mendicants who had approached unobserved and had prostrated themselves at his feet. For a moment he gazed at their emaciated faces, the squalid dress, and the bare and unwashed feet of his suitors; and then curling his lip with disdain he ordered them out of his presence, and retired again to the solitary recesses of his own thoughts. The mendicants withdrew as quietly as they had approached, but not until they had really accomplished their mission. They had left before the Pontiff the manuscript which it was the chief object of their visit to present. That parchment contained the Articles of Associa tion of a new religious order, that had been formed for a purpose no less than the restoration of pure Catholicism throughout Italy, and perhaps throughout the whole of the Christian world. At the head of the company of mendicants was Francis of Assisi.

The Franciscan historians tell a charming story to the effect that after Innocent had sent the intruders roughly away, he withdrew to look over the paper which had been placed with so much humility at his feet. After its perusal he retired, but only to have a troublesome night. In his dreams all the difficulties of his position seemed to overwhelm him. At length a palm tree sprouted up between his very feet. Shooting rapidly up into the heavens it cast abroad its arms, and offered to him the grateful protection of its foliage. The vision of the night gave form and character to the policy of the morning. The dream was interpreted to signify that the new order of Fran. ciscans would strike its roots deep into society, and, by its

wide-spreading branches, would afford that protection and refreshment which the church so much needed.

Early in the morning, Innocent recalled the mendicants to his presence. They had retired to spend the night in prayer, in full faith that the pope would yet summon them to an audience, and grant to their work the coveted seal of his benediction. And now their prayers were to be answered, and their faith realized. The desires and the promises of Francis were heard. The laws of the order were examined, and after discussion and deliberation were approved. Thus the founder of the new order received the solemn apostolical blessing. Inflamed with zeal to enter at once upon his great work of defending the church, he took his immediate departure from Rome, and returned to his native city.

The reception of Francis by his former associates at Assisi, can only be understood in connection with a remembrance of those checkered events and experiences that had thus far made up his life.

His father was one of the richest merchants of Assisi-so prominent, indeed, for his wealth as to be among the foremost of those whom the popes deemed it prudent to propitiate in the guilds of the nascent Italian cities. The son inherited not only the wealth, but also the business talent of his father. As a boy he was remembered to have been the brightest among the children of Assisi; as a youth, to have traversed the streets as the merriest of her troubadours; and, on arriving at his majority, as a merchant, he had been among the most devoted and successful. Everything seemed to indicate what the world calls a life of smooth prosperity. For a number of years nothing of importance occurred to disturb the even flow of his easy and successful activity. There was every promise of that mediocre life which is satisfied with temporary applause and respect, but which in the end is destined to be swallowed up and leave no trace of a name behind it.

But that prospect was suddenly interrupted. In a war that broke out, mediæval fashion, between Assisi and Perugia, Francis, as one of the most public spirited, was among the first to contribute his money and his sword. And he was one of the earliest to be taken prisoner. Twelve months he

languished amid the horrors of a medieval dungeon. A severe illness carried him to the very gates of death, and his gaze was directed with more than usual earnestness into the abyss beyond. For weeks it remained uncertain whether he would be called to pass the barrier, or be allowed to retrace his steps to the material world. At length, however, he recovered, and was soon after released, but his whole nature seemed to have undergone a transformation. He had left his former self in the dungeon, and seemed to have come forth another. He brought to the companionship of his friends the air of one to whom had been revealed all the mysteries of the future, and upon whom those mysteries had made the deepest and strongest impression.

On his release the people of Assisi attempted to celebrate his recovery and return. Going out to meet him they placed in his hand the sceptre of the king of frolic, and on his head the crown of Momus. But amid all their festivities the voice of Francis was unheard. And with such a leader even the revels of his friends could not be completely joyful. After all their efforts, the streets echoed but faintly to the shouts and songs of the multitude. The painful shadow that had settled. upon the countenance of their leader was not slow in gathering upon those of his companions.

At length one of the most familiar and jocund ventured to ask, “Why are you so grave, Francis; are you going to be married?" "I am," responded the leader, "and to a lady of such rank, wealth, and beauty, that the world cannot produce her like." And with that response, he burst from the throng to search out and espouse the lady of his choice. On that very day, before one of the altars in Assisi, he kneeled to consummate the purpose of his heart. And there, in the most solemn manner and in the presence of witnesses, he vowed to take her whom he had chosen as his wedded wife, for better, for worse, to love and to cherish till death should them part. And the name of his bride, was Poverty.

The marriage of St. Francis has been a favorite theme with several of the world's geniuses. It has been celebrated in some of the most graceful lines of Italy's greatest poet, and in an eloquent sermon by the greatest of French orators. But

after all the most touching tribute paid to these espousals, was by the greatest of the early Italian painters.

The traveler who in Italy to-day yields to the temptation held out by the picturesque situation of Assisi:

will have his chief reward not in reminders of Propertius and Metastasio, but in the study of that curious old pile that is at once a mausoleum of St. Francis, and a sanctuary of early Italian Art. As one enters the Cathedral in high expectation of finding much that is of interest in the way of art, a temporary disappointment is sure to be felt amid the discouragements of Gaddi and Cavallini. But on reaching the High Altar all disappointment vanishes. Directly above are the four great frescoes by Giotto, the remarkable excellence of which placed the artist high above all his contemporaries, and compelled even Dante to acknowledge the superiority.

"Credette Cimabue nella pintura

Tener lo campo, ed ora ha Giotto il grido,
Si che la fama di colui oscura."

Those four triangular paintings are a real apotheosis of St. Francis. Three of them are designed in celebration of Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience, the three cardinal vows of the Franciscans, and the fourth is a Glorification, as if to hint at the reward promised for the faithful. As a work of Art, the latter probably stands at the head of Giotto's works. But in those characteristics which address themselves to the soul rather than to the eye of the beholder, and fill it with an unspeakable sympathy and forgetfulness of all its temporal surroundings, the palm of excellence must be awarded to the Povertà. As the fittest representation of his subject, the artist, in this picture, commemorates the solemn union of Francis and his bride. The latter is clothed in sordid apparel and her feet are torn by the sharp thorns and stones over which she is passing. But above and around her head is a glorious crown of light and roses, as if to proclaim to every beholder that the soul may be elevated and purified by means of the severest corporal afflictions. The Saviour stands by