The man’s great mind had doubtless been shaken by his affliction and by the gloomy theology of his time. Otherwise these performances, so inconsistent with his genius, could never have taken place. The irregularity of his productions, sometimes delicate as the most graceful stanzas of the troubadours, and some times as coarse and rough as Villon at his worst, are in exact proof of this assertion.

In theology he was, to quote Ozanam, “no longer a dogmatic but a mystic.” He really became the leader of a band of pure and elevated minds which continued, by direct genealogy, through Hugo and Richard of St. Victor, and Tauler down to St. Theresa, Madame Guyon, Fénelon, and our own Thomas C. Upham. It is an honor of no slight consequence to have inspired so much of the spirit of the Apostle John into that turbid current of mediaeval religion. And it does not surprise us, therefore, to find the Cur mundus militat of Jacoponus credited to Bernard of Clairvaux, nor the Jesu, dulcis memoria of Bernard attributed to Jacoponus. The two men were very similar, but the opportunities of the French abbot were infinitely superior to those of the Italian monk. And after a very careful inquiry I remain convinced, like other hymnologists, that these two great hymns have already been properly assigned. It is certainly a staggering piece of testimony when the latter is found in an old MS. of Jacoponus’s poems, precisely in the form in which it appears in the most critical edition of the writings of Bernard. And it is equally unsettling for us to come upon the Cur mundus militat in the works of the saint, when we know, on no doubtful evidence, that this was the passport of the sinner into his Franciscan convent. Once more it is worth our while to repeat the warning that any positive designation of Latin hymns by their authors’ names must rest upon a firmer foundation than the mere fact that they can be discovered in this man’s or that man’s printed works.

Jacoponus also interests us in view of his Protestant spirit. He never fancied Boniface VIII., and when that pope had a dream in which he saw a great bell without a tongue, and consulted the keen-witted friar upon its meaning, he received the reproof valiant, “Know, your holiness,” said the undaunted monk, “that the great size of the bell signifies the pontifical power which embraces the world. But take heed lest the tongue be that good example which you will not give.” For this and other liberties which he took it is no wonder that he presently found himself in prison, where he suffered everything patiently, and announced that he would go out when Boniface was ready to come in. And this, indeed, actually occurred. He was excommunicated, too, but from this sentence Benedict XI. released him on December 23d, 1303.

I cannot refrain from quoting some more of his religious aphorisms and meditations which instinctively suggest to us the pious musings of À Kempis. Here is one: “I have always thought, and I think now, that it is a great thing to know how to enjoy God. Why? Because in these hours of joy, humility is exercised with respect. But I have thought, and I think now, that the greatest thing is to know how to rest deprived of God. Why? Because in these hours of trial, faith is exercised without evidence, hope without attempt at fulfilment, and charity without any sign of the divine benevolence.” And here is a fragment from his last poem: “Love, I see that thou art transfiguring me, and making me become Love like thee, so that I dwell no longer in my own heart and that I know no longer how to find myself again. If I perceive in a man any evil, or vice, or temptation, I am transformed and I enter into him; I am penetrated with his pain.”

It must not be supposed that these poems were in the Latin language in every instance. Very few of the entire number are truly within our own sphere of research, and all those composed in Italian are accessible to us only through a French prose translation. But his “Praise of Poverty” deserves a place even in these pages, for it reveals the nature of the poet and helps us to comprehend the pathos and tenderness of his unregulated genius:

“Sweet Poverty, how much in truth

Should we love thee!

For, child, thou hast a sister named

Humility.

A common bowl, for food and drink,