Salesian Literature

Cardinal Weismann's Introduction

Written by Cardinal Wiseman for an Edition of the “Conferences” Published in 1862  

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The usual object of a preface is to claim the reader’s interest for a work, or his indulgence for its defects, or his better understanding of it, through explanations of its plan and objects.  But a preface to a book by St. Francis de Sales must appear superfluous to every Catholic reader, on any of these grounds.  The author’s name, a name so revered, so beloved by every devout soul, at once excites interest, excludes all apologies, and dispenses with explanations. Having been requested by the pious community of his daughters in England to prefix to the new translation of his “Conferences” a few preliminary pages, we find it no easy task to comply with their flattering request.  Only the hope of bringing these excellent discourses to the knowledge of more lovers of true devotion, than their modest title would guide to their perusal, can form an excuse to ourselves or to our readers.

 

At first sight it may appear unreasonable to say that conferences, or spiritual lectures, delivered within the walls of a single convent, having its own special character, not written by their author, but from memory by his devout hearers, can promise much usefulness beyond the order to which that house belonged, or at most, beyond the sphere of religious life. Now, so far from this being, in our judgment, the case, we consider them practically calculated to do much good beyond the cloister and the chapter-house of monastery or convent. They will be read, we trust with pleasure, and we are sure with profit, by devout persons living in the world, by clergy and laity; the former of whom will find in them invaluable principles and advice for the guidance of consciences, while the latter cannot, fail to derive from their study, consolation, en­couragement, and direction.

 

And how is this? Because, while undoubtedly the applications and illustrations of St. Francis, in this work, are mainly referred to, and drawn from, the duties and virtues of the conventual life, the whole book is pervaded by the spirit of the Saint, a spirit which ever bears with it these qualities, or results. The human heart, and the Christian's way to heaven, in whatever condition of life, are essentially the same: the one made by the One Divine Hand; the other pointed out by the Heavenly Finger of Him Who alone is " the way, the truth, and the life." With both St. Francis deals in his Conferences, and with both no one was ever more familiar than he. He cannot speak of the heart, its emotions, its passions, its direction, to a Religious, but he must needs touch secret springs that fly open, and discover hidden treasures, or lurking miseries, in each of our hearts. For its powers unemployed, or misapplied, will be fully revealed to us.

 

And so the path of life eternal, as shown particularly to the Sisters of the Visitation, is not the painful and thorny one of penance and austerity, but that of charity, humility, sweetness, union of the affection with God, devotion, kindness to every one, respectfulness, considerateness, and obedience, all bound up in strict order and observance of rule.  And by what other way than this does any one entertain any rational expectation of reaching heaven?

 

But perhaps we are prematurely entering into details.  Let us rather, as our design is, endeavour to seize, and describe, what we have called the spirit of St. Francis de Sales, so admirably exhibited to us in this little volume.

 

What does this expression mean?  No one has given us a better explanation of it than the Saint himself in his thirteenth conference, “on the spirit of the Rules.”  He there shows us how all religious orders have one general and common spirit, “that of aspiring to the perfection of charity”; but each has its individual spirit, in the means by which its rules direct the attainment of that end.

 

And so it is with spiritual writers.  They all propose to themselves one aim – that of guiding souls, through the practice of virtue, to eternal salvation.  This many of them do excellently, and it would be difficult to give a decided preference among many.  Some may write better than others; illustrate their subjects more agreeably; throw into their manner more cheerfulness or more gravity; lay more stress on particular works or virtues; inculcate more some favourite devotion. But all treat of sin and repentance, the sacraments and grace, the manner of overcoming vices and subduing the passions, and the gradual acquisition of virtue and perfection.

 

But we shall hardly find one of whom we can say that he possesses a spirit of his own: one who distinguishes himself from others, not by a higher degree, but by a distinct order, of excellence; one who has transfused his own individual soul into what he has written; who we feel, as we read him, has long practised everything that he enjoins and advises; and who consequently lives in every line of his pages, breathes, throbs, pants in every word, as if it were laid on his own bosom, over his own heart while we peruse it. We shall meet with few who, from their own meditations and transports of devotion, have added to the treasures of piety stored up in the Church before them, and transmitted a fresh supply, accepted by her, and laid up by her own hands, in her treasury, like relics and sacred jewels, precious to herself and her children.

 

Of these few St. Francis is one. We might read excellent volumes by holy writers, and form no distinct idea from them of individual character. Holy, wise, and learned we should know and see them to have been; but we should feel little in­timacy with them. St. Francis so lives in every page that he has written, that we see his own peculiar disposition stamped on it. No one else could have written it. And why? Because what we have called his spirit pervades all that it dictates, and that spirit is life and breath, and soul, and personality.  For, as St. Paul asks, “what man knoweth the things of a man, except the spirit of (that) man, which is in him?” (1 Cor. 2:11).  The individuality of each man, and his consciousness of self, which distinguishes him from every other, has its seat in his spirit.  And one who can in his actions or words thoroughly manifest that spirit, can resemble none else, and can be resembled by none else.

 

Now, to illustrate what we wish to say of St. Francis, as thus unfolding his spirit through and in his writings, let us go into a higher order of holiness, and see this idea particularly exhibited.

 

The most perfect class of saints in the Church is undoubtedly that of the apostles, not only form its privileges, but also from its virtues.  They rise above all others by the sublimity of their Apostolic spirit.  This, which we all can easily perceive, distinguishes them from every other band in the army of Saints.  And we understand it as the general characteristic of that “glorious choir.”  The same unselfish life of labour, in obedience to their divine call and commission, the same readiness to suffer and die for its accomplishment, the same zeal and labouriousness, and the same spotless life and superhuman virtue, compose that character, which is simply called their spirit.  We know but little of the lives and acts of many: but we never doubt that Bartholomew, and Thaddeus, and Thomas, and Philip possessed it, and displayed it, in their dark and thankless missions, equally with their more celebrated brethren.

 

Yet even among these there were inequalities though not differences.  In St. Peter eminently stand forth the characteristics of his prerogatives-authority, ardour, sagacity and power to lead, with a strong repentant love of his crucified Lord.    In St. Paul we see all that was required by his grand apostleship of the nations, untiring activity, burning zeal, and wonderful tact, eloquence, and defiance of opposition and persecution.  Still, no one ever speaks of the spirit of St. Peter, or the spirit of St. Paul, otherwise than as the apostolic spirit common to both, and to their fellow apostles, only morn wonderfully developed, and pre-eminent in their order.

 

But we may speak, and do, of the spirit of St. John, as distinct from the common gifts of the apostleship, as having impregnated the uni­versal Church for ever, with a distinct wisdom or grace, the absence of which would have been a loss, and the existence of which we feel that God communicated through him alone. John breathed upon the infant Church a breath which at once pervaded her, which did not indeed com­municate to her what was instinctive and congenital to her, love of her Creator and her Spouse, but, which gave it life, activity, system, and perfect form. The whole theory and practice was at once communicated to her of the "triple cord" of love, of the love of God for man, of the love of man for God, and of the love of each man for all the rest of men.  We all know whence he drew this breath, or rather where it was quickened and purified. As in the living circulation, the air which we inhale flows through its own channels, while the sluggish blood presses trough its own veins; and, though both are kept separate, yet by the contact between their respective conduits, through a subtle process of infiltration, they act on one another; and the blood runs brightened and freshened by momentary approximation, rather than access, to the renovating ether: so John, though he but laid his head on the outward covering of the adorable Heart of Jesus, received at every throb a mysterious communication with the life that beat there, a participation of the love, marvelous and divine, which abode in it, which transformed his entire being into a union of life and love with those of Christ, not granted to any other apostle.

 

Hence he could speak nothing else but love.  If he writes a Gospel, love diffuses a golden glow over it, totally different from any other’s – it is the Gospel of love.  If he writes a long epistle to the Universal Church, or a short letter to a lady and her children, it must be on love; and we know that he spoke ever on this one topic, till the thoughts and words of his long life gradually distilled and condensed, at last, in the feebleness of his frame and organs, concentrated themselves into the one sentence, which, Sunday after Sunday, formed his only sermon; till, by its monotony, it wearied his hearers, but cannot weary the Church of ages; “My little children, love one another.”

 

Such is the spirit of St. John; and it is not too much to say that in the modern Church, a spirit not dissimilar has been given singularly to St. Francis de Sales.  And from our illustration, drawn so high, we may more easily understand what constitutes this divine gift of a particular spirit. Oh that we had space to open all our mind on this subject, in connection with, and to the honour of, either Saint. It is full of beautiful sug­gestions, and branches out into sweet and enchanting bypaths. But we are only engaged in the humble work of a preface, and not composing a treatise. Let, us, then, confine ourselves to St. Francis.

 

The spirit of a Saint is like a delicate and ex­quisite perfume, that can scarcely be defined, though enjoyed by all. It is a cordial that refreshes, an elixir that quickens, different from all others, though one cannot always say how. Each of these is, or may be, compounded of many ingredients, yet so blended in a secret laboratory where "the apothe­cary shall make sweet confections, and make up ointments of health" (Ecclus. 38:7), that the most sensitive organ cannot discover what they are; for they give one single and inimitable result. Am I so the peculiar spirit of a holy man has a common base of virtue with every other perfect servant of God's. He will be humble, patient, devout, morti­fied, pure, watchful, a man of prayer and meditation, and, above all, on fire with divine charity. But blended with all these virtues, there will be an aetherial savour, that seems to exhale from them, and distinguishes them, a sweet aroma unattainable by any other.

 

And it will be that multitudes who cannot describe it, may nevertheless be conscious of it. The entire Church will recognise the gift: every one of her children feel it. It is like the Magdalene's spikenard: "the house was filled with its odour" (Jn. 12:3), and many enjoyed it who saw not whence it came.

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The Church has indeed openly recognized in St. Francis the existence of such a peculiar spiritual gift, a spirit of his own.  In his Collect, she praises God for having “made him all to all, for the salvation of souls,” and prays that by following “the direction of his precepts or advice,” and “steeped in the sweetness of charity, we may attain eternal life.”  And again in her legend of him, after our Saint has been praised for all the virtues that made him one, he receives that special eulogium which belongs singularly to himself, that “his works, filled with heavenly doctrine, shine brightly through the Church; for that in them he has pointed out a way, sure and easy, to Christian perfection.”  Thus does the Church recognize a peculiar commission given by divine goodness to St. Francis, of making felt “the sweetness of charity,” and leading men to salvation by this path, rather than by that of austerity and penance.

 

It may be said that he took the first step on that glorious and royal highway, on which his friend St. Vincent de Paul advanced so boldly; that Francis taught the beautiful theory which Vincent crowned by practice.  And who amongst us, on reflecting, does not find, or rather feel, that he has been solidly benefited by this teaching?  You, virtuous and holy souls, and we, poor repentant sinners, you who bound forward on your path with heads erect rejoicing, or we who creep forward sorrowful and dejected; do we not all feel St. Francis, by his sweet spirit, pervading the Church, has made our way brighter and lighter? He could not make the narrow road a wide one — God forbid! But how many unnecessary briars has he not plucked out of it, how many a heavy stone has he not rolled aside from before our feet, how many a yawning chasm has he not bridged over for our secure passage, how many a dark nook and gloomy turn has 1m not lighted up by his cheerful torch! Has he not made meditation more easy, prayer more confident, confession less painful, communion more refreshing, scruples less annoying, temptations less formidable, the world less dangerous; the love of God more practicable, and virtue more amiable? And thin not only to those who have read, and who love bin works, but to all Catholics, through the spirit of gentle direction, and tender considerateness which has tempered and seasoned the direction of souls since his time, in spite of the insidious rigour; of the Jansenistic period.

 

And now coming to the precious little volume before us, we could desire no better proof of the accuracy with which the orally delivered lectures contained in it have been recorded than this: that every page breathes the spirit of St. Francis as fully as that Philothea of which an English Protestant, monarch expressed his judgment, by peevishly wondering why none of his bishops could write any­thing like that. As St. John's spirit imparts its sweet flavour to his shortest writing, so does that, of St. Francis betray itself in his most familial-compositions.

 

Let us try to analyse the almost impalpable materials which compose this delicious essence.

 

The spirit of St. Francis is a spirit of sweetness.  This is the most recognizable, the most obvious of its qualities.  It associates itself in our minds with his name.  One drop of bitterness or of acidity in a whole volume would be sufficient to make us reject it as none of his.  It is not the universal blandness assumed by the courtier, a smile for all, which may cover resentment or contempt, or is only a mask for selfishness and self-complacency.  It is not the softness of a weak and yielding mind, that has no strength of principle or of feeling, and shows no strong emotions, because it has no distinct perceptions.  There never was anyone with greater clearness of judgement as to good and evil, or a more firm determination of what is good and lovable, what is evil and odious.  And yet when expressing himself on these, harshness or unkindness cannot mount to his pen or his tongue.

 

In fact, it is the sweetness not of manner, or of phrase, or of look that forms this quality, but the sweetness of mind, of heart, of soul distilled through every sense and every pore: for in one word it is the suavity of charity.  With what a sweetly loving eye he looks forth on nature, and culls from it his imagery.  If we glance not over his pages to learn our natural history, we cannot but smile delightedly at the beautiful simplicity with which he contemplates nature, as the mirror of the spiritual world.  His bees are not those of Huber, or of our gardens; they are intelligent and moral little beings; and the Saint’s heart loves them, because they, like it, are ever full of honey, or busy making it, redolent always of it, and overflowing with it. How loving is the following passage: "But as soon as our souls have chosen, Our Lord for their sole and sovereign King, all our powers get quiet, like chaste and mystic bees, cluster around Him, and never leave their hive, except for those exercises of fraternal charity which this sacred King commands them to practise.  As soon as these are accomplished, they return to recollection and holy desirable quiet, in order to distil and store up the honey of the sweet and holy thoughts and affections which they draw from His sacred presence."

 

And as he loves the honey-bee, from a natural sympathy between its, and his, unceasing occu­pations, so does he dearly love the dove, because of their mutual resemblances in disposition.  But, this is no more the dove of our cotes than the other is the bee of our hives.  It is an ideal bird that thinks, and reflects, and reasons, and is guided by the sweetest laws of disinterested love.  Nay, the heart of St. Francis can understand its language, though so monotonous; to him its unwearied and unceasing cooing speaks distinct and tender sentences, worthy to be rules for a religious soul. Hence he makes this mystical tongue the subject, of an entire conference (VII). "The laws of doves," he tells his spiritual daughters, "are all extremely delightful, and form a most pleasing subject for meditation."  Yes, truly sweet, when a Saint's sweetness makes it for us. No one but St. Francis could do it. For when he is describing the dove, he is really describing, though unconsciously, himself.  "Consider too," he says, “how pleasing is the law of their simplicity since Our Lord Himself praises it… And, in the third place, how delightful is the law of their gentleness, for which they are without gall or bitterness.”  Blessed Saint, who couldst say this of any creature, without self-reproach, without an idea that someone reading these lines might say, “He has given us here his own character, in that of the dove.”

 

But rising above irrational illustrations, how great a favourite with him is St. Joseph, on account of his gentleness and unrepining simplicity, manifested most tenderly in his sweetness towards our Blessed Lady, under circumstances so painful to his love.  And then, how necessarily Our Lord becomes the type of perfection in this his favourite quality, so that he closes his beautiful remarks on Christ’s sweetness by this conclusion: “But he who shall prevent his neighbour with the blessings of sweetness will be the most perfect imitator of Our Lord.”

 

What does St. Francis unintentionally pronounce himself to be by these words?  His great namesake of Assisi was pronounced to have come closer to our Redeemer than anyone else in abnegation and renunciation of self: has anyone come nearer than the second Francis, in the giving up of self to his neighbour?  Each is a beautiful form of divine love.

 

Want of space prevents us from instancing our Saint’s frequent illustrations drawn from children, whose little ways he had evidently learnt, through that attentiveness of affectionate observation, so often despised by lofty souls. The reader of these Conferences will find them in many places. For indeed we must close this first portion of our attempt to analyse the spirit of St. Francis: and will do so with one remark. This minute attention to the very smallest fondnesses of children, belongs to a mother's heart: and he never speaks of a father's tenderness for them. His child always runs to the mother, never to the sterner parent. How did he note and learn this sweetest of relations between human beings? How does he apply them so accurately and minutely to the spiritual life? Through his own gentle, delicate heart. His intellect was most masculine, his bearing most manly. When a student, ho could wield his sword as bravely as, when a bishop, his pen: attacked in person, he could defend him­self as courageously as, when assailed in principles, he could vindicate them fearlessly. No, there was nothing effeminate or weak in his constitution. His heart even was not feminine; it was not a woman's, but a mother's. Not a heart that shrank before the contemplation of sores or misery, or turned away from danger or conflict. The mother's does not, when her own child is their object. Its very tenderness of affection will make its possessor stand by, inwardly agonised, but outwardly calm, while it soothes its darling child writhing in pain, or wins it to take from her hand the bitter potion. Such is the maternal affectionateness of Francis's heart, exuberant with compassion, meekness, considerateness, gentleness, suavity, one of the few hearts which after, or since, the Apostle's could become all to all — the child's with the child, the sufferer’s with the sufferer, the rejoicer's with the rejoicer, and if not the sinner's, the penitent's, with the sinner. And so far from despising or undervaluing this delicacy of spiritual organization as even an approach to weakness, we should look at it with reverence and almost awe, as approaching the divine; when we remember how He Who in the very context calls Himself “the Lord of hosts” (Is. 58:1) and the “the mighty One of Jacob” (Is. 59:26), yet claims as His own characteristic the mother’s heart.  “Can a woman forget her infant, so as not to have pity on the son of her womb? And if she should forget, yet will I not forget thee” (Is. 49:15).  Nor can it seem to us derogatory to a Saint’s dignity to seek his images of this sweetest of loves among irrational creatures, or to have them applied to his character, when his and our Master has used them to describe His own tenderness.  “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, … how often would I have gathered thy children, as the hen doth gather her chickens under her wings” (Mt. 23:37).  Is there any appeal more softly touching in the whole New Testament than this?

 

The spirit of sweetness must needs be a spirit of consolation and of encouragement: of consolation to the afflicted, the tired, the depressed, the down-hearted; of encouragement to the strong, the robust, the determined and resolute.

 

And such is eminently the spirit of St. Francis.  Nor could it be otherwise.  For, as we have seen, his sweetness is that of charity.  And charity is the Holy Spirit, whose name is the Paraclete, or the Comforter; whom the Church salutes lovingly by these titles:—

 

"Consolator optime

Dulcis hospes animae

Dulce refrigerium."

 

You see how sweetness and consolation are combined in the Spirit of God; and how can they be disjoined in the spirit of one of His Saints? If, therefore, Our Lord pours into one of these an extraordinary portion of spiritual sweetness, He thereby infuses into him a more than ordinary grace of consoling influence — he thereby becomes himself a comforter.

 

And is not our St. Francis one of these? Most truly he is; as much as if, in the upper chamber of Jerusalem, he had sat beneath the waving of that divine Dove's golden pinions, as He shook from them, at every stroke, tongues of fire, soft, lambent, healing tongues; which, applied to the sore or wounded heart, draw thence, as the flaunt is supposed to do for the body, the inflammation of burning passion, and soothes, then warms with healthy temperature.

 

We should have to quote from every conference, and almost from every page, in this little volume, did we intend, or presume, fully to illustrate this ingredient of St. Francis' spirit. We may begin, however, by saying that his master-rule of consolation is to teach the soul how to do without it. He gently and sweetly allays the thirst for this water, with which God softly sprinkles His young plants, till their roots have struck deep into the earth; like the olive, which sucks its fatness and its perennial sap from the very driest rock, from the arid cinders of the volcanic bed.  “Oleum de saxo durissimo” (Deut. 32:13).  He weans the delicate and sensitive soul from that infant’s milk to the solid food of the adult, the meat of the strong.

 

We have described the spirit of a Saint as a compound too fine and aetherial to bear exact separation into parts: the ingredients are too thoroughly blended by nice affinities to be separated.  And so here the spirit of consolation mingles itself most homogeneously with the spirit of generosity, of which we shall have later to say a few words.  By infusing this noble sentiment into the soul, it becomes invigorated, and so heedless of consolation.  It is raised to the loving God from purer, and serving Him for higher, motives.  And thus the office of consolation becomes that of encouragement; the hand that led at the beginning of the race is wanted now to applaud its quicker progress towards the goal.

 

But at the beginning there are shackles on the limbs and weights on the frame, which must be shaken off or removed before we can run freely.  And her, indeed, our Saint comes wonderfully to our assistance.  There are many anxieties and scruples which beset every one in his spiritual life, especially in youth, perplexing the conscience and disturbing it with apprehensions of sin.  There is a bird so timid that the shadow of a cloud passing overhead drives it, to seek shelter, into any hole in the earth; so there the fowler has set his device for its destruction, and the foolish little thing runs into a real danger to escape from an imaginary one.  And so it may befall weak and pusillanimous souls.

 

For such, St. Francis, in these Conferences, is admirable. And as they are to be found not only in the Visitation, not only in religion, not only in colleges and schools, but in the family, in the world, we say unhesitatingly that this little work is a present that must be acceptable to Catholic readers of every class. Let us illustrate this assertion by examples.

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And first let us remark how the Saint repeatedly explains the important distinction between the superior and inferior region of the soul.  The one is the throne of reason, the dwelling of the will, the seat of our nobler affections.  It is the firmament raised above the sphere of mists and clouds, whirlwinds and tempests – that is, of our lower appetites, meaner desires, evil or imperfect affections.  The upper sky is kept secure and pure by our love of God, habitual direction of all our wishes and thoughts to Him, persevering and unretracted union of ourselves and of our operations, interior and exterior, with Hi, by singleness of intention.  Now all the tumult and irregularity that is beneath may sweep across the face of what is above it, may blot it, obscure it, disfigure it to the eye, but it does not reach it, it does not disturb it.  It keeps below; it is outward to it, as the object which seems inside the lens or pupil of the eye.  Thousands of such, and even foul ones, may pass in succession before that delicate mirror, and it is not thereby defiled, or robbed of its delicate sensibility. This distinction so pervades the entire book that it is unnecessary to quote specific passages.

 

What is more annoying and discouraging than the difficulty of keeping the mind undistracted, recollected, united with God?  Yet how does St. Francis treat this sense of imperfection?  Among many other consoling ways, as follows: “That is not, however, what you ask, I see very well, but rather what you must do, in order so to fix your mind steadfastly in God, that nothing can weaken its hold or withdraw it from Him.  For this two things are necessary:  to die and to be saved.”[1]

 

And sooner after he goes on to say: “Pardon me, my daughter; the smallest distraction does not withdraw your soul from God, as you say, for nothing withdraws us from God but sin; and our resolution made each morning to keep our soul united to God, and attentive to His presence, keeps us always there, even when we are sleeping, since we sleep in the name of God, and according to His most holy will.”

 

And so of repeated infidelities in our desire to persevere, and in our religious practices.  “I do not call it a failure in perseverance when we occasionally allow little interruptions in our obedience, provided that we do not abandon it altogether.”[2]

 

Again, how painful to a willing heart to find a repugnance to the performance of a duty.  It almost drives to despair.  It makes us feel as if it were better not to do it – it seems so worthless; nay, so hypocritical even.  Hear how light St. Francis makes of it.  “I wish you, however, to observe that when I say we must do this I am always referring to the superior part of our soul, for as regards all the feelings of repugnance in the inferior part, we must pay no more heed to them than passers-by do to dogs which they hear barking in the distance."[3]

 

Similar to repugnances are aversions.  These affect persons, as those do duties.  We may easily find directors who would not absolve us if we confessed an aversion for one who had done nothing to deserve it, or even for one who had.  St. Francis gives us an entire Conference (XVI) on this subject, and it is most lenient and consoling. “What remedy” he asks, “is there for these antipathies, since no one, however perfect he may be, can be exempt from them?”[4]  And he replies: “The only remedy for this evil, as indeed for all other kinds of temptation, is simply to turn away from it, and think no more about it.”  Then after some very simple explanations of willful indulgence and simple feeling of aversion, he thus wisely concludes: “Now, when as regards our antipathies we do nothing worse than speak a little less pleasantly to a person than we should do to any one for whom we felt a strong affection, it is no great matter; indeed, it is scarcely in our power to do otherwise when under the influence of this emotion; and it would be wrong to require it of us.”[5]

 

Somewhat similar to this trial is the repugnance we have to be reproved, or set right, especially by those whose duty it is not to correct us.  On this subject St. Francis remarks: “Taking everything into account, there is nobody who is not averse to correction.”  And he instances St. Pachomius and St. Francis.  How true is this experience of human nature, and how considerable his way of dealing with it!  Listen to his kind and encouraging words.  How lightly he taxes poor humanity in them!  “In the second place, you want to know how we should receive correction without letting remain in us any sensitiveness or bitterness of heart.  To prevent the feeling of anger from stirring within us, and to keep the blood from showing itself in our face, cannot be.  Happy indeed shall we be if we attaint o this perfection a quarter of an hour before we die!”[6]

 

Let us remember that a Saint writes this who had completely mastered all passion and subdued self; and that, in instructing religious who aspired to perfection.  There are few who may not derive comfort from this gentle guidance.

 

And here we will remark, as it will be impossible for us to detach and describe separately, many of the impalpable elements which compose the delicate flavour of our Saint’s precious spirit, that, at first sight, this sweetness and its accompanying consolations might be supposed to be combined with some degree of weakness and indecison.  Yet this is not so, but quite the contrary.  St. Francis is always master of the principles on which he decides, and acts upon them definitely.

 

For example, in doubts and hesitations about partial consent to long temptations, a weak mind, directing or directed, has recourse to the comfort of general accusations, and dubious self-reproaches, as a remedy.  St. Francis proscribes this compromise, and does not hesitate to forbid the practice. The entire passages should be read, as they afford most useful instruction, as well as solid comfort. We will only give a few detached sentences. "To say that we accuse ourselves of having felt some stirrings of anger, sadness, and so on, is not to the purpose. Anger and sadness being passions, their stirrings within us are not sins, seeing that it is not in our power to prevent them. Anger must be unbridled, or it must lead to unbridled actions to be a sin."[7]  Again:—

 

"Do not make any useless accusation in confession. You have had imperfect thoughts about your neighbour, thoughts of vanity, or even worse; you have had distractions in your prayers; well, if you have deliberately dwelt upon them, say so in good faith, and do not content yourself with saying that you have not been careful enough in keeping yourself recollected during the time of prayer. If you have been negligent in rejecting a distraction, say so, for these general accusations are of no use in confession."[8] Finally, "You tell me now that when you have experienced some great emotion of anger, or any other temptation has assailed you, you always feel scruples if you do not confess it. I reply that you should mention it in your review of conscience, but not in the way of confession."[9]

 

We have already intimated that generosity enters largely into the composition of our Saint's spirit. But generosity, in his language, is very different from what it sounds in the mouth of others; and on this account we must be allowed to say a few words upon it.  Generally speaking, we associate generosity with a certain greatness, or rather grandeur, of soul.  It becomes almost akin to pride, in our mental associations.  We think this vice to be the danger, the temptation, of the generous mind.

 

But in our dear Saint’s scheme of virtues it is exactly the contrary.  It sounds almost a paradox when we find him declaring such a danger to be impossible.  Generosity and pride are incompatibles; they cannot co-exist, according to him.  And why? “You see then,” he observes, “that these two virtues of humility and generosity are so closely joined and united to one another, that they never are and never can be separated.”[10] Now, the reasoning by which he reaches this conclusion is of almost mathematical accuracy, and the encouraging deductions which he draws from it are a series of beautiful maxims for the spiritual life.

 

While St. Francis teaches us to despise all goods apparent in ourselves as from ourselves, such as are perishable, transitory, and dependent on others, or otherwise fortuitous, and in this places humility, he instructs us highly to value the direct gifts of God, such as faith, hope, and charity, “good gifts which are in us but not of us,” as also vocation, and “a certain capacity which God has given us of being united to Him by grace.”  And in our consciousness of the possession of these gifts, and our determination to devote ourselves, through them, entirely to God, he places generosity.  “Humility believes it can do nothing… while on the contrary, generosity makes us say with St. Paul, ‘I can do all things in Him Who strengthens me.’ Humility makes us mistrust ourselves; generosity makes us trust in God."[11]

 

We need hardly say how variously this beautiful view goes far beyond its immediate application here. It reconciles with humility the consciousness of intellectual and other mental qualities, when they are recognised as simple gifts of God, and dedicated and devoted generously to Him. Indeed, the more they are cultivated in this spirit — their objects infinitely varying — the more do deficiencies and imperfections become sensitively felt, and the more is humility forced upon the soul; as the brighter we make a fire, kindled at the mouth of a deep pit or cavern, the deeper and intenser we cause its darkness to appear. Many, we well know, are perplexed and troubled by the difficulty of uniting these two conflicting feelings, that they arc nothing, and that yet they are really a great deal. On the contrary, there is much more to fear from that humility which pretends to exclude knowledge of what is plain to others, and so cannot be con­cealed from inward conviction. " The humility," says our Saint, " which does not produce generosity, is undoubtedly false."[12]

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The generous willingness to undertake duties and occupations beyond our strength is supported with comforting consistency by St. Francis, who never shrinks from the legitimate consequences of his principles. He thus applies them, when treat­ing of hope, to a particular case: " Even if you have no virtues or perceive none in yourselves, do not be distressed on that account, for if you under­take the guidance of souls or any other work, whatever it may be, for the glory of God and to satisfy obedience, He will take care of you, and has pledged Himself to provide all that will be necessary for you as well as for those whom He has committed to your charge.

 

It is true that what you are undertaking is a matter of great consequence and of immense importance, but still you would be very wrong not to hope for good success in it, seeing that you do not undertake it by your own choice but by obedience.”[13]

 

How truly consoling and encouraging to the bishop, to the priest, to the monk, and often to the layman, as well as to the nun, must this doctrine, of generous abandonment of our wills to God, often prove.

 

We must unite together two other, similar but distinct, ingredients of the sweet spirit of St. Francis; observing that we are obliged to omit even mention of many, which the devout reader will easily discover.

 

These two qualities are considerateness and discernment.  The first of them leavens the whole work, and all the Saint’s direction.  The frailties, the weaknesses, the peculiarities of temper, disposition, and even physical nature of different persons to whom his instruction has to be applicable, never for a moment escape him.  With his prudence and tact, which practical experience in this sublime art of spiritual direction can alone fully make us appreciate, there is no danger of error or oversight.  His counsels are so well balanced, that we cannot recollect an instance of an advice by which any one could be possibly led into trouble. For example, never could one say in reading these Conferences, "This will not apply to me, who am weak, or timid, or not accomplished, or poor in spiritual or mental gifts;" nor, on the other hand, "This is meant for persons of not so cultivated a mind, or such long experience especially in office, as it has pleased Almighty God to bestow on me."  No; everything in these charming Conferences is so well adjusted and averaged, that they will be read with equal pleasure and profit by the most illiterate lay sister or touriere who can barely spell them out, and by the most highly educated choir nun; by the youth­ful novice, and by the venerable jubilarian. There is not a line that will encourage the ardent and aspiring to overstep the prescriptions of rule, by voluntary austerities or extraneous devotions, or that will depress the feebler or faint-hearted to droop below the level-line of full and generous observance.  To check and to cheer, firmly to curb and gently to spur, to keep all together as one body, which may move and apply its different limbs variously for the performance of individual functions, but has no power of advance or retreat — of locomotion, piecemeal, but must move on together as a unity and a whole — such is the tendency of the entire treatise.

 

Any community formed and trained upon its principles, must advance by a uniform and com­bined movement towards aggregate, which is far more valuable than individual, perfection — without perceptible prominences or depressions, that is, with­out any member to be pointed out as rising signally above others in religious holiness, or as lagging behind in the performance of duty.  How much better is a religious house of which it is said, “That is a holy Community,” than one of which it is whispered, “In that Convent there are some nuns who are quite saints.”  This is St. Francis’ great aim, to train not one or two holy women up to great perfection, but an aggregate of such handmaids of God, and spouses of the Lamb, so prepared as that from their number the Almighty may at any time choose such as He sees fit to walk more close to Him, and to be singled out for that sublimer perfection which one scarcely may dare to covet.

 

Hence, as we have intimated, he resolutely sets himself against any extraordinary, however secret, performances, especially in all that belongs to penance and mortification.  His admirable Conference (XIII) “On the Spirit of the Rule” is most decisive on this subject. He thus defines “the particular spirit of the Visitation.”  “I have always considered that it is a spirit of profound humility towards God, and of great gentleness with our neighbour; the more so because, treating the body with less severity, it must all the more foster kindliness of heart.”[14]  This principle is admirably illustrated, in a way which brings out the considerateness of St. Francis for those whose infirmities will not allow them to enter other orders.  But we must not deny ourselves the satisfaction of quoting a few lines further on.  Thus does the holy bishop speak: “If, however, there should be a sister so generous and courageous as to wish to arrive at perfection in a quarter of an hour, by doing more than the rest of the com­munity, I would advise her to humble herself and submit to a restraint upon her zeal, so far as to extend the space of time to three days, taking the same course as her sisters, and if there should be sisters who have strong and healthy constitu­tions, well and good; but still they must not want, to go faster than the weak."[15]

 

It required no small resolution and determinateness of principle to speak thus.  The founder and head of an institute like this naturally desires and rejoices to see his spiritual daughters springing forward,  bounding  like   the  roe   on  the  way  of perfection, and some foremost in the race, leaders, examples, forerunners of the rest, like John running before, and quicker than Peter, to find his Lord. But St. Francis, all to all, to the weak as to the strong, had no partialities in his spirit, no preferences: he admired, no doubt, that part of John's modest conduct when he checked his youthful speed and paused till Peter overtook him, that so they might, enter in together where Jesus had reposed.   And so "the strong and healthy" must not put the weak to shame by "going faster."    The entire body must, move together, and reach heaven hand in hand.

 

Hence he considers nothing too minute or too common to be beneath his notice or instruction. For example, he descends to prescribing rules for recreation and conversation, and they are simple and practical; thus, "I reply: as in all other actions, although in this particular one there should be a holy freedom and frankness in conversing upon such subjects as serve to foster a spirit of joy and recreation.”[16]

 

How sensible is his injunction to avoid “the vice of stupidity,” and not learning what is necessary.”[17]

 

He does not command the rejection of natural affections and social courtesies, but only their being always kept under proper rule and command.  What considerateness there is in the following words: “Then, again, the natural love of relationship, good manners, courtesy, affinity, sympathy, and kindliness will be purified and reduced to the perfect obedience of the all-pure love of the divine good pleasure.”[18]

 

Every page could furnish examples of this spirit of considerateness, and at the same time of discernment, which applies it.  For this quality consists in a singular perspicacity and minuteness of observation, such as we have remarked St. Francis displays of the little ways of children.  Far more is this exhibited by him when he treats of, and with, his spiritual family.  He seems to have overheard every possible dialogue between a superior and any one f her subjects, whether scrupulous, or, to use a homely word, fidgety, or ardent, or desponding, or clever, or dull, or delude.  In every mood he knows what the one must have said, and what the other ought to have answered.  He has somehow listened invisible to the sisters talking together, in recreation, in their offices, in the infirmary; and he repeats with graphic simplicity their conversation, with occasionally its unconscious arts, springing from yet unconquered natural propensities, little remnants of self — self-esteem, self-respect, or perhaps self-love, in its more innocent forms.  But still more, he has stolen into their hearts by a secret and tender sympathy, instinctive to him.  He has read their thoughts, with a loving eye, their aspirations, their hesitations, their anxieties, their secret trials.  He has looked under those delicate folds which shelter failings or defects, imperceptible to their owners, and with a gentle and skilful hand has drawn them out.  We feel confident that not a single silent excuse, or unspoken suggestion of imperfect virtue, has escaped his notice.

 

Hence he is always ready to make allowances, to frame excuses, to plead for human weaknesses, which one with less discernment would never have known, and one with less sweetness and compassion would not so amiably have spared. One of the qualities of his spirit thus always returns to unite with the others in harmonious combination; were any one absent, we should not have the spirit of St. Francis.

 

Let us now lightly touch upon the last char­acteristic of this admirable spirit, which we can afford room for.    The spirit of St. Francis de Sales is eminently a spirit of wisdom.  For certainly all that we have written will have been written in vain if our readers have not recognised in it a super­human prudence.  And what is this but wisdom? Moderation, avoidance of extremes, adaptation to all circumstances, selection of means to answer all characters and positions—these constitute a wisdom difficult and uncommon.

 

But we now use the word wisdom in a higher sense.  When principles and maxims are found sufficiently wide and deep to reach every class, and penetrate to whatever sphere of men and of things, for the benefit of the one and the improvement of the other, they form, in the best sense, a code of wisdom.  Universality of application of what is good, universality in time, universality in place, stamp on it the seal of wisdom.  Astronomy, physiology, medicine have changed again and again – they constitute science, not wisdom.  But the sentences written by Hebrew sages, their proverbs and their aphorisms, we call “Books of wisdom.”  For they are as true and as applicable in the Europe of today as they were in the Asia of three thousand years ago.

 

And such is the wisdom of St. Francis.  Nothing would be easier than to reduce it to the form of spiritual axioms, universally applicable to the end of time.  Indeed, so true is this, that he himself has to a certain extent done it for us.  Certainly, without intending to be sententious, than which nothing can be more removed from his thought and style, he has often thrown his counsels and observations into a condensed from, like a drop from an alembic, which contains the distilled virtue of many flowers.  They are what, in oriental phrase, would be called his pearls.  A very few examples must suffice to explain our meaning.

 

“I ever say that the throne of God’s mercy is our misery, therefore the greater our misery the greater should be our confidence.”[19]  Many beautiful thoughts will spring up from this illustration. For the greatness of the throne will be pro­portioned to the greatness of what it has to bear. The larger the throne of our humility, built by ourselves, the greater the majesty of Divine Mercy that will occupy it; and so the more abundant our motives of confidence in it.

 

"Desire nothing, refuse nothing."[20] "Ask for nothing, and refuse nothing."[21]  A condensation of his doctrine of humility and generosity.

 

" Charity is an ascending humility, and humility is a descending charity."[22] This sentence contains wisdom enough for a treatise on the alliance between these two greatest of virtues.

 

" There is a great difference between getting rid of a vice, and acquiring its contrary virtue."[23] " Virtue is something positive, not a mere absence of its contrary"[24] Maxims worthy of a great and profitable development, and affording matter for much practical reflection.

 

" There are some laws which are justly unjust."[25] The Saint himself admirably comments on this wise apophthegm.

 

And now our labour of love is closed. We might perhaps have spared our readers so long a perusal, by referring them to the supreme judgment of the Church, who tells us that St. Francis gave to the Visitation "constitutions wonderful for their wisdom, discretion, and sweetness." And do not these words describe the ingredients into which we have tried to resolve the spirit of his conferences? It will be obvious, and indeed it has been already remarked, that we have not treated of the virtues, but only of the spirit, of St. Francis. No doubt his spirit could not have existed without the virtues which made him a Saint.  His humility, his meekness, his piety, his charity were heroic; the qualities of his peculiar spirit were peculiar gifts superadded to these, or sweet emanations from them, peculiarly his own.

 

This little book, therefore, has our hearty blessing; we dare not add, our approbation. It is from our glorious Fellow-bishop and Patron Saint that we must humbly entreat approbation of what we have presumed to write concerning him and his work. If it shall prove of benefit to others, religious or secular, we shall feel that he has deigned to look down upon our humble labour, undertaken for love of him, after God, Whose glory, with him, we devoutly seek to promote, and has blessed it. May his spirit with his mantle descend upon us, his sweetness particularly and his humility — a double spirit, to none more necessary in the Church than to bishops, to none more wanting among bishops than to us.

 

To all Religious we recommend this work most lovingly; to those whom we are allowed to address as our spiritual daughters, with paternal, to others with a most kindly, affection.  From all we earnestly solicit fervent prayers for our many wants, and for the necessities of our Flock, and for the alleviation of the tribulations that afflict the Universal Church and its venerable Head.

 

N. Cardinal WISEMAN.

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[1] Conference 9

[2] Conference 10

[3] Conference 9

[4] Conference 16

[5] Conference 16

[6] Conference 9

[7] Conference 15

[8] Conference 15

[9] Conference 5

[10] Conference 5

[11] Conference 5

[12] Conference 5

[13] Conference 6

[14] Conference 13

[15] Conference 13

[16] Conference 12

[17] Conference 9

[18] Conference 12

[19] Conference 2

[20] Conference 21

[21] Conference 6

[22] Conference 8

[23] Conference 16

[24] Conference 10

[25] Conference 13

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