Francis was born in 1186, at the instant when French art was culminating, or about to culminate, in the new cathedrals of Laon and Chartres, on the ruins of scholastic religion and in the full summer of the Courts of Love.  He died in 1226, just as Queen Blanche became Regent of France and when the Cathedral of Beauvais was planned.  His life precisely covered the most perfect moment of art and feeling in the thousand years of pure and confident Christianity.  To an emotional nature like his, life was still a phantasm or “concept” of crusade against real or imaginary enemies of God, with the “Chanson de Roland” for a sort of evangel, and a feminine ideal for a passion.  He chose for his mistress “domina nostra paupertas,” and the rules of his order of knighthood were as visionary as those of Saint Bernard were practical.  “Isti sunt fratres mei milites tabulae rotundae, qui latitant in desertis”; his Knights of the Round Table hid themselves for their training in deserts of poverty, simplicity, humility, innocence of self, absorption in nature, in the silence of God, and, above all, in love and joy incarnate, whose only influence was example.  Poverty of body in itself mattered nothing; what Francis wanted was poverty of pride, and the external robe or the bare feet were outward and necessary forms of protection against its outward display.  Against riches or against all external and visible vanity, rules and laws could be easily enforced if it were worth while, although the purest humility would be reached only by those who were indifferent and unconscious of their external dress; but against spiritual pride the soul is defenceless, and of all its forms the subtlest and the meanest is pride of intellect.  If “nostra domina paupertas” had a mortal enemy, it was not the pride beneath a scarlet robe, but that in a schoolmaster’s ferule, and of all schoolmasters the vainest and most pretentious was the scholastic philosopher.  Satan was logic.  Lord Bacon held much the same opinion.  “I reject the syllogism,” was the starting-point of his teaching as it was the essence of Saint Francis’s, and the reasons of both men were the same though their action was opposite.  “Let men please themselves as they will in admiring and almost adoring the human mind, this is certain:—­that, as an uneven mirror distorts the rays of objects according to its own figure and section, so the mind ... cannot be trusted ...”  Bacon’s first object was the same as that of Francis, to humiliate and if possible destroy the pride of human reason; both of them knew that this was their most difficult task, and Francis, who was charity incarnate, lost his self-control whenever he spoke of the schools, and became almost bitter, as though in constant terror of a poison or a cancer.  “Praeodorabat etiam tempora non longe ventura in quibus jam praesciebat scientiam inflativam debere esse occasionem ruinae.”  He foresaw the time not far off when puffed-up science would be the ruin of his “domina paupertas.”  His