"O brother birds, St. Francis said,
Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care."
Like all ascetics, Francis was tempted in visions. One cold night he fancied he was in a home of his own, with his wife and children around him. Rushing out of his cell he heaped up seven hills of snow to represent a wife, four sons and daughters, and two servants. "Make haste," he cried, "provide clothing for them lest they perish with the cold," and falling upon the imaginary group, he dispelled the vision of domestic bliss in the cold embrace of the winter's snow. Mrs. Oliphant points out the fact that, unlike most of the hermits and monks, Francis dreams not of dancing girls, but of the pure love of a wife and the modest joys of a home and children. She beautifully says: "Had he, for one sweet, miserable moment, gone back to some old imagination and seen the unborn faces shine beside the never-lighted fire? But Francis does not say a word of any such trial going on in his heart. He dissipates the dream by the chill touch of the snow, by still nature hushing the fiery thoughts, by sudden action, so violent as to stir the blood in his veins; and then the curtain of prayer and silence falls over him, and the convent walls close black around."
The experience of the saint on Mount Alverno deserves special consideration, not merely on account of its singularity, but also because it affords a striking illustration of the difficulties one encounters in trying to get at the truth in monastic narratives. Francis had retired to Mount Alverno, a wild and rugged solitude, to meditate upon the Lord's passion. For days he had been almost distracted with grief and holy sympathy. Suddenly a seraph with six wings stood before him. When the heavenly being departed, the marks of the Crucified One appeared upon the saint's body. St. Bonaventure says: "His feet and hands were seen to be perforated by nails in their middle; the heads of the nails, round and black, were on the inside of the hands, and on the upper parts of the feet; the points, which were rather long, and which came out on the opposite sides, were turned and raised above the flesh, from which they came out." There also appeared on his right side a red wound, which often oozed a sacred blood that stained his tunic.
This remarkable story has provoked considerable discussion. One's conclusions respecting its credibility will quite likely be determined by his general view of numerous similar narratives, and by the degree of his confidence in the value of human testimony touching such matters. The incongruities and palpable impostures that seriously impair the general reliability of monkish historians render it difficult to distinguish between the truths and errors in their writings.
Some authorities hold that the marks did not appear on St. Francis, and that the story is without foundation. But Roman writers bring forward the three early biographers of Francis who claim that the marks did appear. Pope Alexander IV. publicly averred that he saw the wounds, and pronounced it heresy to doubt the report. Popes Benedict XI., Sixtus IV., and Sixtus V. consecrated and canonized the impressions by instituting a particular festival in their honor. Numerous persons are said to have seen the marks and to have kissed the nails, after the death of the saint. Singularly enough, the Dominicans were inclined to regard the story as a piece of imposture designed to exalt Francis above Dominic.
But, if it be admitted that the marks did appear, as it is not improbable, how shall the phenomenon be explained? At least four theories are held: 1. Fraud; 2. The irresponsible self-infliction of the wounds; 3. Physical effects due to mental suggestion or some other psychic cause; 4. Miracle.
1. The temptation is strong to claim a fraud, especially because the same witnesses who testify to the truth of the tale, also relate such monstrous, incredible stories, that one is almost forced to doubt either their integrity or their sanity. But there is no evidence in support of so serious an indictment. After showing that signs and portents attend every crisis in history, Mrs. Oliphant says: "Every great spiritual awakening has been accompanied by phenomena quite incomprehensible, which none but the vulgar mind can attribute to trickery and imposture;" but still she herself remains in doubt about the whole story.
2. Although Mosheim uses the term "fraud," it would seem that he means rather the irresponsible self-infliction of the wounds. He says: "As he [Francis] was a most superstitious and fanatical mortal, it is undoubtedly evident that he imprinted on himself the holy wounds. Paul's words, 'I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus,' may have suggested the idea of the fraud." The notion certainly prevailed that Francis was a sort of second Christ, and a book was circulated showing how he might be compared to Christ in forty particulars. There are many things in his biography which, if true, indicate that Francis yearned to imitate literally the experiences of his Lord.
3. Numerous experiments, conducted by scientific men, have established the fact that red marks, swellings, blisters, bleeding and wounds have been produced by mental suggestion. Björnstrom, in his work on "Hypnotism," after recounting various experiments showing the effect of the imagination on the body, says, respecting the stigmata of the Middle Ages: "Such marks can be produced by hypnotism without deceit and without the miracles of the higher powers." Prof. Fisher declares: "There is no room for the suspicion of deceit. The idea of a strange physical effect of an abnormal state is more plausible." Trench thinks this is a reasonable view in the case of a man like Francis, "with a temperament so irrepressible, of an organization so delicate, permeated through and through with the anguish of the Lord's sufferings, passionately and continually dwelling on the one circumstance of his crucifixion." But others, despairing of any rational solution, cut the Gordian knot and declare that "the kindest thing to think about Francis is that he was crazy."