Henry Wilson, the Vice-president of the United States, was at my tea-table with the strangest appetite I ever knew. The fact was, his last sickness was on him, and his inward fever demanded everything cold. It was tea without any tea. He was full of reminiscence, and talked over his life from boyhood till then. He impressed me with the fact that he was nearly through his earthly journey. Going to my Church that evening to speak at our young peoples' anniversary, he delivered the last address of his public life. While seated at the beginning of the exercises, his modesty seemed to overcome him, and he said: "I am not prepared to address such a magnificent audience as that. Can not you get somebody else to speak? I wish you would." "O no," I said, "these people came to hear Henry Wilson." He placed a chair in the center of the platform to lean on. Not knowing he had put it in that position, I removed it twice. Then he whispered to me, saying: "Why do you remove that chair? I want it to lean on." The fact was, his physical strength was gone. When he arose his bands and knees trembled with excitement, and the more so as the entire audience arose and cheered him. One hand on the top of the chair, he stood for half an hour, saying useful things, and, among others, these words: "I hear men sometimes say, when a man writes his name on the records of a visibleChurch, that he had better let other things alone, especially public affairs. I am not a believer in that Christianity which hides itself away. I believe in that robust Christianity that goes right out in God's world and works. If there ever was a time in our country, that time is now, when the young men of this country should reflect and act according to the teachings of God's holy Word, and attempt to purify, lift up, and carry our country onward and forward, so that it shall be in practice what it is in theory--the great leading Christian nation of the globe. You will be disappointed in many of your hopes and aspirations. The friends near and dear to you will turn sometimes coldly from you; the wives of your bosom and the children of your love will be taken from you; your high hopes may be blasted; but, gentlemen, when friends turn their backs upon you, when you lay your dear ones away, when disappointments come to you on the right hand and on the left, there is one source for a true and brave heart, and that is an abiding faith in God, and a trust in the Lord Jesus Christ."
Having concluded his address he sat down, physically exhausted. When we helped him into his carriage we never expected to see him again. The telegram from Washington announcing his prostration and certain death was no surprise. But there and then ended as remarkable a life as was ever lived in America.
It is no great thing if a man who has been carefully nurtured by intelligent parents, and then passed through school, college, and those additional years of professional study, go directly to the front. But start a man amid every possible disadvantage, and pile in his way all possible obstacles, and then if he take his position among those whose path was smooth, he must have the elements of power. Henry Wilson was great in the mastering and overcomingall disadvantageous circumstances. He began at the bottom, and without any help fought his own way to the top. If there ever was a man who had a right at the start to give up his earthly existence as a failure, that man was Henry Wilson. Born of a dissolute father, so that the son took another name in order to escape the disgrace; never having a dollar of his own before he was twenty-one years of age; toiling industriously in a shoemaker's shop, that he might get the means of schooling and culture; then loaning his money to a man who swamped it all and returned none of it; but still toiling on and up until he came to the State Legislature, and on and up until he reached the American Senate, and on and up till he became Vice-president. In all this there ought to be great encouragement to those who wake up late in life to find themselves unequipped. Henry Wilson did not begin his education until most of our young men think they have finished theirs. If you are twenty-five or thirty, or forty or fifty, it is not too late to begin. Isaac Walton at ninety years of age wrote his valuable book; Benjamin Franklin, almost an octogenarian, went into philosophic discoveries; Fontenelle's mind blossomed even in the Winter of old age; Arnauld made valuable translations at eighty years of age; Christopher Wren added to the astronomical and religious knowledge of the world at eighty-six years of age.
Do not let any one, in the light of Henry Wilson's career, be discouraged. Rittenhouse conquered his poverty; John Milton overcame his blindness; Robert Hall overleaped his sickness; and plane and hammer, and adze and pickax, and crowbar and yardstick, and shoe-last have routed many an army of opposition and oppression. Let every disheartened man look at two pictures--Henry Wilson teaching fifteen hours a day at five dollars a week to gethis education, and Henry Wilson under the admiring gaze of Christendom at the national capital. He was one of the few men who maintained his integrity against violent temptations. The tides of political life all set toward dissipation. The congressional burying-ground at Washington holds the bones of many congressional drunkards. Henry Wilson seated at a banquet with senators and presidents and foreign ministers, the nearest he ever came to taking their expensive brandies and wines was to say, "No, sir, I thank you; I never indulge." He never drank the health of other people in any thing that hurt his own. He never was more vehement than in flinging his thunderbolts of scorn against the decanter and the dram-shop. What a rebuke it is for men in high and exposed positions in this country who say, "We can not be in our positions without drinking." If Henry Wilson, under the gaze of senators and presidents, could say No, certainly you under the jeers of your commercial associates ought to be able to say No. Henry Wilson also conquered all temptations to political corruption. He died comparatively a poor man, when he might have filled his own pockets and the pockets of his friends if he had only consented to go into some of the infamous opportunities which tempted our public men.Credit Mobilier, which took down so many senators and representatives, touched him, but glanced off, leaving him uncontaminated in the opinion of all fair-minded men. He steered clear of the "Lobby," that maelstrom which has swallowed up so many strong political crafts. The bribing railroad schemes that ran over half of our public men always left him on the right side of the track. With opportunities to have made millions of dollars by the surrender of good principles, he never made a cent. Along by the coasts strewn with the hulks of political adventurers he voyaged without loss of rudder or spar.We were not surprised at his funeral honors. If there ever was a man after death fit to lie on Abraham Lincoln's catafalque, and near the marble representation of Alexander Hamilton, and under Crawford's splendid statue of Freedom, with a sheathed sword in her hand and a wreath of stars on her brow, and to be carried out amid the acclamation and conclamation of a grateful people, that man was Henry Wilson.
The ministers did not at his obsequies have a hard time to make out a good case as to his future destiny, as in one case where a clergyman in offering consolation as to the departure of a man who had been very eminent, but went down through intemperance till he died in a snow-bank, his rum-jug beside him. At the obsequies of that unfortunate, the officiating pastor declared that the departed was a good Greek and Latin scholar. We have had United States senators who used the name of God rhetorically, and talked grandly about virtue and religion, when at that moment they were so drunk they could scarcely stand up. But Henry Wilson was an old-fashioned Christian, who had repented of his sins and put his trust in Christ. By profession he was a Congregationalist; but years ago he stood up in a Methodist meeting-house and told how he had found the Lord, and recommending all the people to choose Christ as their portion--the same Christ about whom he was reading the very night before he died, in that little book called "The Changed Cross," the more tender passages marked with his own lead-pencil; and amid these poems of Christ Henry Wilson had placed the pictures of his departed wife and departed son, for I suppose he thought as these were with Christ in heaven their dear faces might as well be next to His name in the book.
It was appropriate that our Vice-president expire in theCapitol buildings, the scene of so many years of his patriotic work. At the door of that marbled and pictured Vice-president's room many a man has been obliged to wait because of the necessities of business, and to wait a great while before he could get in; but that morning, while the Vice-president was talking about taking a ride, a sable messenger arrived at the door, not halting a moment, not even knocking to see if he might get in, but passed up and smote the lips into silence forever. The sable messenger moving that morning through the splendid Capitol stopped not to look at the mosaics, or the fresco, or the panels of Tennessee and Italian marble, but darted in and darted out in an instant, and his work was done. It is said that Charles Sumner was more scholarly, and that Stephen A. Douglas was a better organizer, and that John J. Crittenden was more eloquent; but calling up my memory of Henry Wilson, I have come to the conclusion that that life is grandly eloquent whose peroration is heaven.--DR. TALMADGE,in The Sunday Magazine.
No story of heroism has greater attractions for youthful readers than that of Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans. It would be long to tell how for hundreds of years the greatest jealousy and mistrust existed between England and France, and how constant disputes between their several sovereigns led to wars and tumults; how, in the time of Henry the Fifth, of England, a state of wild confusion existed on the continent, and how that king also claimed to be king of France; how this fifth Henry was married to Catherine, daughter of King Charles, and how they were crowned king and queen of France; how, in the midst of his triumphs, Henry died, and his son, an infant less than a year old, was declared king in his stead; how wars broke out, and how, at last, a simple maiden saved her country from the grasp of ambitious men. Hardly anything in history is more wonderful than, the way in which she was raised up to serve her country's need, and, having served it, died a martyr in its cause.
Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, was born in the forest of Greux, upon the Meuse, in the village of Domremy, in Lorraine, in the year 1412. At this time France was divided into two factions--the Burgundians and the Armagnacs--the former of whom favored the English cause, and the latter pledged to the cause of their country.
Joan was the daughter of simple villagers. She was brought up religiously, and from her earliest youth is said to have seen visions and dreamed dreams; the one great dream of her life was, however, the deliverance of her country from foreign invasions and domestic broils. When only about thirteen years of age, she announced to the astonished townspeople that she had a mission, and that she meant to fulfill it.
The disasters of the war reached Joan's home; a party of Burgundians dashed into Domremy, and the Armagnacs fled before them. Joan's family took refuge in the town of Neufchateau, and she paid for their lodging at an inn by helping the mistress of the house.
Here, in a more public place, it was soon seen and wondered at that such a young girl was so much interested in the war. Her parents were already angry that she would not marry. They began to be frightened now. Jacques D'Arc told one of his sons that sooner than let Joan go to the camp he would drown her with his own hands. She could not, however, be kept back. Very cautiously, and as though afraid to speak of such high things, she began to let fall hints of what she saw. Half-frightened herself at what she said, she exclaimed to a neighbor, "There is now, between Colombey and Vaucouleurs, a maid who will cause the king of France to be crowned!"
Now came the turn in the war, when all the strength of both sides was to be gathered up into one great struggle, and it was to be shown whether the king was to have his right, or the usurper triumph. The real leaders of the war were the Duke of Bedford, regent of England, and the captains of the French army. Bedford gathered a vast force, chiefly from Burgundy, and gave its command to the Earl of Salisbury. The army went on; they gained, without astruggle, the towns of Rambouillet, Pithwier, Jargean, and others. Then they encamped before the city of Orleans. To this point they drew their whole strength. Orleans taken, the whole country beyond was theirs, as it commanded the entrance to the River Loire and the southern provinces; and the only stronghold left to King Charles was the mountain country of Auvergne and Dauphine.
The men of Orleans well knew how much depended upon their city. All that could be done they did to prepare for a resolute defense. The siege of Orleans was one of the first in which cannon were used. Salisbury visiting the works, a cannon broke a splinter from a casement, which struck him and gave him his death wound. The Earl of Suffolk, who was appointed to succeed him, never had his full power.
Suffolk could not tame the spirit of the men of Orleans by regular attack, so he tried other means. He resolved to block it up by surrounding it with forts, and starve the people out. But for some time, before the works were finished, food was brought into the city; while the French troops, scouring the plains, as often stopped the supplies coming to the English. Faster, however, than they were brought in, the provisions in Orleans wasted away. And through the dreary Winter the citizens watched one fort after another rise around them. The enemy was growing stronger, they were growing weaker; they had no prospect before them but defeat; when the Spring came would come the famine; their city would be lost, and then their country.
The eyes of all France were upon Orleans. News of the siege and of the distress came to Domremy, and Joan of Arc rose to action. Her mind was fixed to go and raise the siege of Orleans and crown Charles king. Not for one moment did she think it impossible or even unlikely.What God had called her to do, that she would carry out. She made no secret of her call, but went to Vaucouleurs and told De Briancourt that she meant to save France. At first the governor treated her lightly, and told her to go home and dream about a sweetheart; but such was her earnestness that at last not only he, but thousands of other people, believed in the mission of Joan of Arc. And so, before many days, she set out, with many noble attendants, to visit Charles at the castle of Chinon.
On all who saw her, Joan's earnestness, singleness of heart, and deep piety made but one impression. Only the king remained undecided; he could hardly be roused to see her, but at last he named a day, and Joan of Arc had her desire and stood before him in the great hall of Chinon. Fifty torches lighted the hall, which was crowded with knights and nobles. Joan, too self-forgetful to feel abashed, walked forward firmly. Charles had placed himself among his courtiers, so that she should not know him. Not by inspiration, as they thought, but because with her enthusiasm she must have heard him described often and often, she at once singled him out and clasped his knees. Charles denied that he was the king. "In the name of God," Joan answered, "it no other but yourself. Most noble Lord Dauphin, I am Joan, the maid sent on the part of God to aid you and your kingdom; and by his command I announce to you that you shall be crowned in the city of Rheims, and shall become his lieutenant in the realm of France." Charles led her aside, and told his courtiers afterward that in their private conversation she had revealed to him secrets. But all that she said appears to have been, "I tell thee from my Lord that thou art the true heir of France." A few days before the king had offered a prayer for help only on condition that he was the rightful sovereign, and it has beenwell said that "such a coincidence of idea on so obvious a topic seems very far from supernatural or even surprising." It is but one out of many proofs how ready every one in those days was to believe in signs and wonders.
Her fame spread wide; there went abroad all kinds of reports about her miraculous powers. Already the French began to hope and the English to wonder.
The king still doubted, and so did his council. People in our own day, who admire the wisdom of the Dark Ages, would do well to study the story of Joan of Arc. She was taken before the University of Poictiers. Six weeks did the learned doctors employ in determining whether Joan was sent by God or in league with the devil. She never made any claim to supernatural help beyond what she needed to fulfill her mission. She refused to give them a sign, saying that her sign would be at Orleans--the leading of brave men to battle. She boasted no attainments, declaring that she knew neither A nor B; only, she must raise the siege of Orleans and crown the Dauphin. The friars sent to her old home to inquire about her, and brought back a spotless report of her life. So, after the tedious examination, the judgment of the learned and wise men of Poictiers was that Charles might accept her services without peril to his soul.
The vexatious delays over, Joan of Arc set out for Orleans. In the church of Fierbois she had seen, among other old weapons, a sword marked with five crosses. For this she sent. When she left Vaucouleurs she had put on a man's dress; now she was clad in white armor. A banner was prepared under her directions; this also was white, strewn with the lilies of France.
So much time had been lost that Joan was not at Blois till the middle of April. She entered the town on horseback; her head was uncovered. All men admired herskillful riding and the poise of her lance. Joan carried all before her now; she brought spirit to the troops; the armor laid down was buckled on afresh when she appeared; the hearts of the people were lifted up--they would have died for her. Charles, who had been with the army, slipped back to Chinon; but he left behind him better and braver men--his five bravest leaders. Joan began her work gloriously by clearing the camp of all bad characters. Father Pasquerel bore her banner through the streets, while Joan, with the priests who followed, sang the Litany and exhorted men to prepare for battle by repentance and prayer. In this, as in all else, she succeeded.
When the English heard that Joan was really coming, they pretended to scorn her. Common report made Joan a prophet and a worker of miracles. Hearts beat higher in Orleans than they had done for months. More terror was in the English camp than it had ever known before.
The English took no heed of Joan's order to submit. They little thought that in a fortnight they would flee before a woman.
She entered the city at midnight. LaHire and two hundred men, with lances, were her escort. Though she had embarked close under an English fort, she was not molested. Untouched by the enemy, coming in the midst of the storm, bringing plenty, and the lights of her procession shining in the black night, we can not wonder that the men of Orleans looked on her as in very truth the messenger of God. They flocked round her, and he who could touch but her horse was counted happy.
Joan went straight to the cathedral, where she had the Te Deum chanted. The people thought that already they were singing their thanksgivings for victory. Despair was changed to hope; fear to courage. She was known as "theMaid of Orleans." From the cathedral she went to the house of one of the most esteemed ladies of the town, with whom she had chosen to live. A great supper had been prepared for her, but she took only a bit of bread sopped in wine before she went to sleep. By her orders, the next day an archer fastened to his arrow a letter of warning, and shot it into the English lines. She went herself along the bridge and exhorted the enemy to depart. Sir William Gladsdale tried to conceal his fright by answering her with such rude words as made her weep. Four days afterwards the real terror of the English was shown. The Maid of Orleans and LaHire went to meet the second load of provisions. As it passed close under the English lines not an arrow was shot against it; not a man appeared.
Joan of Arc was now to win as much glory by her courage as before her very name had brought. While she was lying down to rest, that same afternoon, the townspeople went out to attack the Bastile of St. Loup. They had sent her no word of the fight. But Joan started suddenly from her bed, declaring that her voices told her to go against the English. She put on her armor, mounted her horse, and, with her banner in her hand, galloped through the streets. The French were retreating, but they gathered again round her white banner, and Joan led them on once more. Her spirit rose with the thickness of the fight. She dashed right into the midst. The battle raged for three hours round the Bastile of St. Loup, then Joan led on the French to storm it. Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, had gained her first victory.
The day after there was no fighting, for it was the Feast of the Ascension. Joan had been first in the fight yesterday; she was first in prayer to-day. She brought many of the soldiers to their knees for the first time in their lives.
Illustration: JOAN OF ARC.JOAN OF ARC.
All along the captains had doubted the military skill of "the simplest girl they had ever seen," and they did not call her to the council they held that day. They resolved to attack the English forts on the southern and weakest side. After a little difficulty Joan consented, when she was told of it. The next day, before daybreak, she took her place with LaHire on a small island in the Loire, from whence they crossed in boats to the southern bank. Their hard day's work was set about early. Joan would not wait for more troops, but began the fight at once. The English joined two garrisons together, and thus for a time overpowered the French as they attacked the Bastile of the Augustins.
Carried on for a little while with the flying, Joan soon turned round again upon the enemy. The sight of the witch, as they thought her, was enough. The English screened themselves from her and her charms behind their walls. Help was coming up for the French. They made a fresh attack; the bastile was taken and set on fire. Joan returned to the city slightly wounded in the foot.
The only fort left to the English was their first-made and strongest, the Bastile de Tournelles. It was held by the picked men of their army, Gladsdale and his company. The French leaders wished to delay its attack until they had fresh soldiers. This suited Joan little. "You have been to your council," she said, "and I have been to mine. Be assured that the council of my Lord will hold good, and that the council of men will perish." The hearts of the people were with her; the leaders thought it best to give in. Victory followed wherever she led, and, after several actions, at which she took active part, the siege was raised. It began on the 12th of October, 1428, and was raised on the 14th of May, 1429.
Even now, in Orleans, the 14th of May is held sacred, that day on which, in 1429, the citizens watched the English lines growing less and less in the distance.
Joan of Arc had even yet done but half her work. Neither Charles nor Henry had been crowned. That the crown should be placed on Charles's head was what she still had to accomplish. Though we have always spoken of him as "King," he was not so in reality until this had been done. He was strictly but the Dauphin. Bedford wished much that young Henry should be crowned; for let Charles once have the holy crown onhisbrow, and the oil of anointing on his head, and let him stand where for hundreds of years his fathers had stood to be consecrated kings of France, in the Cathedral of Rheims, before his people as their king, any crowning afterwards would be a mockery. Charles was now with the Court of Tours. Rheims was a long way off in the north, and to get there would be a work of some difficulty; yet get there he must, for the coronation could not take place anywhere else. Joan went to Tours, and, falling before him, she begged him to go and receive his crown, saying, that when her voices gave her this message she was marvelously rejoiced. Charles did not seem much rejoiced to receive it. He said a great deal about the dangers of the way, and preferred that the other English posts on the Loire should be taken first. It must have been very trying to one so quick and eager as Joan to deal with such a person, but, good or bad, he was her king. She was not idle because she could not do exactly as she wished; she set out with the army at once.
The news flew onwards. The inhabitants of Chalons and of Rheims rose and turned out the Burgundian garrisons. The king's way to Rheims was one triumph, and, amidst the shouts of the people, he entered Rheims on the16th of July. The next day Charles VII was crowned. The visions of the Maid had been fulfilled. By her arm Orleans had been saved, through her means the king stood there. She was beside the king at the high altar, with her banner displayed; and when the service was over, she knelt before him with streaming eyes, saying, "Gentle king, now is done the pleasure of God, who willed that you should come to Rheims and be anointed, showing that you are the true king, and he to whom the kingdom should belong."
All eyes were upon her as the savior of her country. She might have secured every thing for herself; but she asked no reward, she was content to have done her duty. And of all that was offered her, the only thing she would accept was that Domremy should be free forever from any kind of tax. So, until the time of the first French Revolution, the collectors wrote against the name of the village, as it stood in their books, "Nothing, for the Maid's sake."
Joan of Arc said that her work was done. She had seen her father and her uncle in the crowd, and, with many tears, she begged the king to let her go back with them, and keep her flocks and herds, and do all as she had been used to do. Never had man or woman done so much with so simple a heart. But the king and his advisers knew her power over the people, and their entreaties that she would stay with them prevailed. So she let her father and her uncle depart without her. They must have had enough to tell when they reached home.
We have little heart to tell the rest of the story. At length the king reached Paris, and the Duke of Bedford was away in Normandy. Joan wished to attack the city, and it was done. Many of the soldiers were jealous of her, and they fought only feebly. They crossed the first ditch round the city, but found the second full of water. Joanwas trying its depth with her lance, when she was seriously wounded. She lay on the ground cheering the troops, calling for fagots and bundles of wood to fill the trench, nor would she withdraw until the evening, when the Duke of Alencon persuaded her to give up the attempt, as it had prospered so ill.
Were it not so wicked and so shameful, it might be laughable to think of the king's idleness. It is really true that he longed for his lovely Chinon, and a quiet life, as a tired child longs to go to sleep. He made his misfortune at Paris, which would have stirred up almost any one else to greater exertions, an excuse for getting away. The troops were sent to winter quarters; he went back across the Loire now, when the English leader was away, and the chief towns in the north ready to submit. Had he but shown himself a man, he might have gained his capital, and the whole of the north of France. The spirit lately roused for him was down again. It seemed really not worth while to fight for a king who would not attend to business for more than two months together.
We know little more of the Maid of Orleans in the Winter, than that she continued with the army. After her defeat at Paris, she hung her armor up in the church at St. Denis, and made up her mind to go home. The entreaties of the French leaders prevailed again; for, though they were jealous of her, and slighted her on every occasion, they knew her power, and were glad to get all out of her that they could. In December, Joan and all her family were made nobles by the king. They changed their name from Arc to Du Lys, "Lys" being French for lily, the flower of France, as the rose is of England; and they were given the lily of France for their coat of arms.
With the return of Spring the king's troops marchedinto the northern provinces. Charles would not leave Chinon. The army was utterly disorderly, and had no idea what to set about. Joan showed herself as brave as ever in such fighting as there was. But, doubting whether she was in her right place or her wrong one, in the midst of fierce and lawless men, nothing pointed out for her to do, her situation was most miserable. The Duke of Gloucester sent out a proclamation to strengthen the hearts of the English troops against her. The title was "against the feeble-minded captains and soldiers who are terrified by the incantations of the Maid."
A long and troublesome passage had Joan of Arc from this bad world to her home in heaven, where dwelt those whom she called "her brothers of Paradise." Her faith was to be tried in the fire--purified seven times. All the French army were jealous of her. The governor of the fortress of Compiègne was cruel and tyrannical beyond all others, even in that age. Compiègne was besieged by the English; Joan threw herself bravely into the place. She arrived there on the 24th of May, and that same evening she headed a party who went out of the gates to attack the enemy. Twice they were driven back by her; but, seeing more coming up, she made the sign to go back. She kept herself the last; the city gate was partly closed, so that but few could pass in at once. In the confusion she was separated from her friends; but she still fought bravely, until an archer from Picardy seized her and dragged her from her horse. She struggled, but was obliged to give up; and so the Maid of Orleans was taken prisoner.
Joan was first taken to the quarters of John of Luxembourg. Her prison was changed many times, but the English were eager to have her in their own power. In November John of Luxemburg sold her to them for a largesum of money. When she was in his prison she had tried twice to escape. She could not try now; she was put in the great tower of the castle of Rouen, confined between iron gratings, with irons upon her feet. Her guards offered her all kinds of rudeness, and even John of Luxembourg was so mean as to go and rejoice over her in her prison.
It would have been a cruel thing to put her to death as a prisoner of war; but those were dark days, and such things were often done. The desire of the English was to hold Joan up to public scorn as a witch, and to prove that she had dealings with the devil. With this wicked object, they put her on her trial. They found Frenchmen ready enough to help them. One Canchon, bishop of Beauvais, even petitioned that the trial might be under his guidance. He had his desire; he was appointed the first judge, and a hundred and two other learned Frenchmen were found ready to join him.
Before these false judges Joan of Arc was called--as simple a girl as she was when, just two years before, she left Domremy. All that malice and rage could do was done against her. She was alone before her enemies. Day after day they tried hard to find new and puzzling questions for her; to make her false on her own showing; to make her deny her visions or deny her God. They could not. Clearheaded, simple-hearted, she had been always, and she was so still. She showed the faith of a Christian, the patience of a saint, in all her answers. Piety and wisdom were with her, wickedness and folly with her enemies. They tried to make evil out of two things in particular: her banner, with which it was declared she worked charms, and the tree she used to dance around when she was a child, where they said she went to consult the fairies. Concerning her banner, Joan said that she carried it on purpose to spare thesword, so she might not kill any one with her own hand; of the tree, she denied that she knew any thing about fairies, or was acquainted with any one who had seen them there. She was tormented with questions as to whether the saints spoke English when she saw them, what they wore, how they smelt, whether she helped the banner or the banner her, whether she was in mortal sin when she rode the horse belonging to the bishop of Senlis, whether she could commit mortal sin, whether the saints hated the English. Every trap they could lay for her they laid. She answered all clearly; when she had forgotten any thing she said so; her patience never gave way; she was never confused. When asked whether she was in a state of grace, she said: "If I am not, I pray to God to bring me to it; and, if I am, may he keep me in it."
After all, they did not dare condemn her. Try as they could, they could draw nothing from her that was wrong. They teased her to give the matter into the hands of the Church. She put the Church in heaven, and its head, above the Church on earth and the pope. The English were afraid that after all she might escape, and pressed on the judgment. The lawyers at Rouen would say nothing, neither would the chapter. The only way to take was to send the report of the trial to the University of Paris, and wait the answer.
On the 19th of May arrived the answer from Paris. It was this: that the Maid of Orleans was either a liar or in alliance with Satan and with Behemoth; that she was given to superstition, most likely an idolater; that she lowered the angels, and vainly boasted and exalted herself; that she was a blasphemer and a traitor thirsting for blood, a heretic and an apostate. Yet they would not burn her at once; they would first disgrace her in the eyes of people. This wasdone on the 23d of May. A scaffold was put up behind the Cathedral of St. Onen; here in solemn state sat the cardinal of Winchester, two judges, and thirty-three helpers. On another scaffold was Joan of Arc, in the midst of guards, notaries to take reports, and the most famous preacher of France to admonish her. Below was seen the rack upon a cart.
The preacher began his discourse. Joan let him speak against herself, but she stopped him when he spoke against the king, that king for whom she had risked every thing, but who was dreaming at Chinon, and had not stretched out a finger to save her. Their labor was nearly lost; her enemies became furious. Persuading was of no use; she refused to go back from any thing she had said or done. Her instant death was threatened if she continued obstinate, but if she would recant she was promised deliverance from the English. "I will sign," she said at last. The cardinal drew a paper from his sleeve with a short denial. She put her mark to it. They kept their promise of mercy by passing this sentence upon her: "Joan, we condemn you, through our grace and moderation, to pass the rest of your days in prison, to eat the bread of grief and drink the water of anguish, and to bewail your sins."
When she went back to prison there was published through Rouen, not the short denial she had signed, but one six pages long.
Joan was taken back to the prison from whence she came. The next few days were the darkest and saddest of all her life, yet they were the darkest before the dawn. She had, in the paper which she had signed, promised to wear a woman's dress again, and she did so. Her enemies had now a sure hold on her. They could make her break her own oath. In the night her woman's dress was taken away, and man'sclothes put in their place. She had no choice in the morning what to do.
As soon as it was day Canchon and the rest made haste to the prison to see the success of their plot. Canchon laughed, and said, "She is taken." No more hope for her on earth; no friend with her, save that in the fiery furnace was "One like unto the Son of God."
Brought before her judges, Joan only said why she had put on her old dress. They could not hide their delight, and joked and laughed among themselves. God sent her hope and comfort; she knew that the time of her deliverance was near. She was to be set free by fire. They appointed the day after the morrow for her burning. But a few hours' notice was given her. She wept when she heard that she was to be burnt alive, but after awhile she exclaimed: "I shall be to-night in Paradise!"
Eight hundred Englishmen conducted her to the market-place! On her way, the wretched priest L'Oiseleur threw himself on the ground before her, and begged her to forgive him. Three scaffolds had been set up. On one sat the cardinal with all his train. Joan and her enemies were on another. The third, a great, towering pile, built up so high that what happened on it should be in the sight of all the town, had upon it the stake to which she was to be tied. Canchon began to preach to her. Her faith never wavered; her Saviour, her best friend, was with her. To him she prayed aloud before the gathered multitude. She declared that she forgave her enemies, and begged her friends to pray for her. Even Canchon and the cardinal shed tears. But they hastened to dry their eyes, and read the condemnation. All the false charges were named, and she was given over to death.
They put her on the scaffold and bound her fast to thestake. Looking round on the crowd of her countrymen, who stood looking over, she exclaimed: "O Rouen! I fear thou wilt suffer for my death!" A miter was placed on her head, with the words: "Relapsed Heretic, Apostate, Idolater." Canchon drew near, to listen whether even now she would not say something to condemn herself. Her only words were, "Bishop, I die through your means." Of the worthless king she said: "That which I have well or ill done I did it of myself; the king did not advise me." These were her last words about earthly matters. The flames burnt from the foot of the pile, but the monk who held the cross before her did not move. He heard her from the midst of the fire call upon her Saviour. Soon she bowed her head and cried aloud "Jesus!" And she went to be with him forever.
We have little to add of the character of the Maid of Orleans. She was simple amid triumph and splendor; unselfish, when she might have had whatever she had asked; humane and gentle, even on the battlefield; patient in the midst of the greatest provocation; brave in the midst of suffering; firm in faith and hope when all beside were cast down; blameless and holy in her life, when all beside were wicked and corrupt.
The English never recovered from the blow struck by the Maid. Their power in France gradually weakened. In 1435 peace was made between Charles VII and the Duke of Burgundy. One by one the ill-gotten gains were given up, and the English king lost even the French provinces he inherited. In the year 1451 the only English possession in France was the town of Calais. This, too, was lost about a hundred years after, in the reign of Queen Mary. Yet the kings of England kept the empty title of kings of France, and put the lilies of France in their coat of arms until the middle of the reign of George III.
The last incident in the strange story of Joan of Arc remains to be told. Ten years after her execution, to the amazement of all who knew him, Charles VII suddenly shook off his idleness and blazed forth a wise king, an energetic ruler. Probably in this, his better state of mind, he thought with shame and sorrow of Joan of Arc. In the year 1456 he ordered a fresh inquiry to be made. At this every one was examined who had known or seen her at any period of her short life. The judgment passed on her before was contradicted, and she was declared a good and innocent woman. They would have given the whole world then to have had her back and to have made amends to her for their foul injustice. But the opinions of men no longer mattered to her. The twenty-five years since she had been burnt at Rouen had been the first twenty-five of her uncounted eternity of joy.
"The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart; and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come."
Music.
In every leaf and flowerThe pulse of music beats,And works the changes hour by hour,In those divine retreats.Alike in star and clodOne melody resides,Which is the working will of God,Beyond all power besides.It is by angels heard,By all of lower birth,The silent music of the WordWho works in heaven and earth.For music order isTo which all work belongs,And in this wondrous world of HisWork is the song of songs.
Divine Workers.
The Father hitherto,And his Eternal SonWork, work, and still have work to doWith each successive sun.O bow the heart in awe,And work as with the Lord,Who, with his everlasting law,Works on in sweet accord.Work is the law of loveWhich rules the world below,Which rules the brighter world above,Through which, like God, we grow.And this and every dayThe work of love is restIn which our sorrows steal away,Which cares may not infest.
The Will of God.
With heart as strong as fate,Brave worker, girt and shod,Adore! and know that naught is greatExcept the will of God.O sweet, sweet light of day,Through which such wonders run,Thou ownest, in thy glorious sway,Allegiance to the sun.And thou, O human will,As wondrous as the light,Cans't thou thy little trust fulfillSave through Another's might?With heart to conquer fate,Brave worker, girt and shod,Work on! and know that he is greatWho does the will of God.
"Laborare est Orare."
To labor is to pray,As some dear saint has said,And with this truth for many a dayHave I been comforted.The Lord has made me boldWhen I have labored most,And with his gifts so manifold,Has given the Holy GhostWhen I have idle beenUntil the sun went down,Mine eyes, so dim, have never seenHis bright, prophetic crown.O, praise the Lord for workWhich maketh time so fleet,In which accusers never lurk,Whose end is very sweet.
Birds of Grace.
O little birds of grace,To-day ye sweetly sing,Yea, make my heart your nesting-place,And all your gladness bring.When ye are in my heart,How swiftly pass the days!The fears and doubts of life depart,And leave their room to praise.My work I find as play,And all day long rejoice;But, if I linger on my way,I hear this warning voice:With fervor work and pray,And let not coldness come,Or birds of grace will fly awayTo seek a warmer home.
Duty.
O work that Duty showsThrough her revealing light!It is in thee my bosom glowsWith infinite delight!The shadows flee awayLike mist before the sun;And thy achievement seems to say,The will of God is done!Ah, what if Duty seemA mistress cold and stern!Can he who owns her rule supremeFrom her caresses turn?O work that Duty showsIn light so fair and clear,Whoever thy completion knowsIs 'minded heaven is near!
Moses.
In Pharaoh's dazzling courtNo work did Moses findThat could heroic life supportAnd fill his heart and mind.Beneath their grievous taskDid not his kindred groan?And a great voice above him ask,"Dost thou thy brethren own?"The work which Duty meantAt length he found and did,And built a grander monumentThan any pyramid.Sometimes his eyes were dim,All signs he could not spell;Yet he endured as seeing HimWho is invisible.
Discoverers.
In search of greener shoresThe Northmen braved the seasAnd reached, those faith-illumined rowers,Our dear Hesperides.And when OblivionSwept all their work away,And left for faith to feed uponBut shadows lean and gray,Columbus dreamed the dreamWhich fired a southern climeAnd hailed a world--O toil supreme!--As from the womb of Time.God's dauntless witnessesFor toil invincible,They gazed across uncharted seasOn the invisible.
God's Order.
In gazing into heavenIn idle ecstacy,What progress make ye to the havenWhere ye at length would be?In heaven-appointed workThe sure ascension lies.O, never yet did drone or shirkMake headway to the skies.Who in his heart rebelsHas never ears to hearThe morning and the evening bellsOn yonder shores so clear.For work communion isWith God's one order here,And all the secret melodiesWhich fill our lives with cheer.
David.
In action day by dayKing David's manhood grew,A character to live for aye,It was so strong and true.Hordes of misrule becameAs stubble to the fire,Till songs of praise like leaping flameBurst from his sacred lyre.He grappled with all rudeAnd unpropitious things:A garden from the solitudeSmiled to the King of kings.And fiercer yet the strifeWith mighty foes within,Who stormed the fortress of his lifeAnd triumphed in his sin.
Good out of Evil.
True David halted notWhen sin had cast him down,Upon his royal life a blot,Death reaching for his crown.His work was but half done;A man of action still,He struggled in the gloaming sunTo do his Maker's will;Till in the golden lightGreat words began to shine:In sorrow is exalting might,Repentance is divine.And now the shepherd kingWe count the human sireOf One who turns our hungeringInto achieved desire.
Elijah.
Elijah, through the nightWhich shrouded IsraelIn toiling, groping for the light,Foretold Immanuel.And in heroic trustThat night would yield to day--His imperfections thick as dustAlong the desert way;His bold, rebuking cryHeard in the wilderness.Till from the chariot of the skyHis mantle fell to bless--The stern, half-savage seerBecame a prophecyOf gladness and the Golden Year,In all high minstrelsy.
Aelemaehus the Monk.
How well he wrought who stoodAgainst an ancient wrong,And left the spangles of his bloodTo light the sky of song!A gladiatorial show,And eighty thousand menFor savage pastime all aglow--O marvel there and then!An unknown monk, his lifeDefenseless, interposed,Forbade the old barbaric strife--The red arena closed!That unrecovered rout!Those fire-shafts from the Sun!O Telemaque! who, who shall doubtThy Master's will was done?
Washington.
The deeds of WashingtonWere lit with patriot flame;A crown for Liberty he won,And won undying fame.He heard his country's cry,He heard her bugle-call,'Twas sweet to live for her, or die;Her cause was all in all.He heard the psalm of peace,He sought again the plow;O civic toil, canst thou increaseThe laurels for his brow?As with a father's handHe led the infant state;Colossus of his native land,He still is growing great.
Lincoln.
God placed on Lincoln's browA sad, majestic crown;All enmity is friendship now,And martyrdom renown.A mighty-hearted man,He toiled at Freedom's side,And lived, as only heroes can,The truth in which he died.Like Moses, eyes so dim,All signs he could not spell;Yet he endured, as seeing HimWho is invisible.His life was under One"Who made and loveth all;"And when his mighty work was done,How grand his coronal!
Garfield.
Of Garfield's finished days,So fair and all too few,Destruction, which at noon-day strays,Could not the work undo.O martyr prostrate, calm,I learn anew that painAchieves, as God's subduing psalm,What else were all in vain!Like Samson in his death,With mightiest labor rife,The moments of thy halting breathWere grandest of thy life.And now, amid the gloomWhich pierces mortal years,There shines a star above thy tombTo smile away our tears.
Not Too Near.
O workers brave and true,Whose lives are full of song,I dare not take too near a view,Lest I should do you wrong.I only look to seeThe marks of sacrifice,The heraldry of sympathy,Which can alone suffice.For nothing else is great,However proudly won,Or has the light to indicateThe will of God is done.Ah, who would judge what fireWill surely burn away!And ask not, What doth God requireAt the Eternal Day?
"Stonewall" Jackson.
God somehow owns the creedsThat seem so much amiss,What time they bear heroic deedsAbove analysis.How, in his burning zeal,Did Stonewall breast his fate,Converted to his country's wealWith fame beyond debate!Sincere and strong of heart,In very truth he thoughtHis ensign signaled duty's part;And as he thought he fought.And truth baptized in blood,As many a time before,Gave honor to his soldierhood,Though trailed the flag he bore.
Work Its Own Reward
O worker with the Lord,To crown thee with success,Believe thy work its own reward,Let self be less and less.In all things be sincere,Afraid not of the light,A prophet of the Golden YearIn simply doing right.And be content to serve,A little one of God,In loyalty without reserve,A hero armored, shod.Or this dear life of thine,Of every charm bereft,Will crumble in the fire divine,Naught, naught but ashes left.
Now and Here
O not to-morrow or afar,Thy work is now and here;Thy bosom holds the fairest star--Dost see it shining clear?The nearest things are great,Remotest very small,To him with eyes to penetrateThe silent coronal.So deep the basis liesOf life's great pyramid,That out of reach of common eyesProphetic work is hid.His reign for which we pray,His kingdom undefiled,Whose scepter shall not pass away,Is in a little child.
A Little Child
Come hither, little child,And bring thy heart to me;Thou art the true and unbeguiled,So full of melody.The presence of a childHas taught me more of heaven,And more my heart has reconciledThan Greece's immortal Seven.For when I sometimes thinkThat life is void of song,Before a little child I sinkAnd own that I am wrong.And lo my heart grows brightThat was so dark and drear,Till in the tender morning lightI find the Lord is near.
The Divine Presence
O, when the Lord is near,The rainbow banners wave;The star I follow shineth clear,I am no more a slave.As if to honor Him,My work is true and free;And flowing to the shining brim,The cup of heaven I see.I marvel not that songShould be employment thereIn which the innumerable throngTheir palms of triumph bear;Or that the choral strifeAnd golden harps expressThe stirring labors of the lifeOf peace and righteousness.
Death in Life
The song of work, I know,Has here its minor tone;And in its ever-changing flow,Death, death in life is known.Discordant notes, alas!So often cleave the airAnd smite the music as they pass,And leave their poison there.And oft, ah me! from someWild region of the heartWill startling intimations come,And peace at once depart.With open foes without,And secret foes within,His heart must needs be brave and stoutThat would life's battle win.
Evil
In the great wildernessThrough which I hold my way,Is there no refuge from distress,Where foes are kept at bay?Saint Anthony of oldCould not from evil flee;The desert cave was found to holdHis mortal enemy.And knew untiring PaulThe world's relentless scorn;While in his flesh, amid it all,He bore another thorn.Our common lot is castIn a great camp of pain!Until the night be over-past,Some foe will yet remain.
With His Foes
The king of beasts was dead--By an old hero slain;Did dreams of honey for his breadDance through the hero's brain?Or did he chafe at this:That pain is everywhere?Down, down, thou fabled right to bliss,Life is to do and bear!Beguiled, enslaved, made blind,Yet unsubdued in will,He kept the old heroic mindTo serve his country still.And in recovered mightPulled the tall pillars down,Diedwithhis foes--that was his right--And built his great renown.
For His Foes
Devotion all supremeThrobs in the mighty psalmOf One who filled our highest dreamAnd poured His healing balm;Who worlds inheritedAnd yet renounced them all;Who had not where to lay His headAnd drank the cup of gall;Who emptied of His powerBecame the foremost man--Calm at the great prophetic hourThrough which God's purpose ran;Who in the darkest fightImagination knows,Saluted Thee, Eternal Light,And died asforHis foes.
The Master
The Master many a dayIn pain and darkness wrought:Through death to life He held His way,All lands the glory caught.And He unlocked the gainShut up in grievous loss,And made the stairs to heaven as plainAs His uplifted cross--The stairs of pain and woeIn all the work on earth,Up which the patient toilers goTo their eternal birth.O Master, Master mine,I read the legend now,To work and suffer is divine,All radiant on Thy brow.
Life in Death
Strong children of decay,Ye live by perishing:To-morrow thrives on dead to-day,And joy on suffering.The labor of your hearts,Like that of brain and hands,Shall be for gain in other marts,For bread in other lands.And will ye now despondAmid consuming toil,When there is hope and joy beyondWhich death can not despoil?Herein all comfort is:In usefulness and zeal,The Lord announces who are HisAnd gives eternal weal.
Sacrifice
Through stern and ruthless yearsBeyond the ken of man,All filled with ruin, pain, and tears,Has God worked out His plan.Change on the heels of change,Like blood-hounds in the chase,Has swept the earth in tireless range,Spangled with heavenly grace.At last the mysteryOf the great Cross of Christ,Red with a world-wide agony,The God-Man sacrificed;And from the SacrificeThe seven great notes of Peace,Which pierce the clouds beneath all skiesTill pain and sorrow cease.
The Mind of Christ
Into the surging world,Upon thy lips His word,And in thy hand His flag unfurled,Go, soldier of the Lord;Like Him who came from farTo toil for our release,And framed the startling notes of warOut of the psalm of peace.And all the recompenseWhich thou wilt ever need,Shall kindle in the throbbing senseOf this life-laden creed:Grace has for him sufficedWho has St. Michael's heart,The fullness of the mind of Christ,To do a hero's part.
Sympathy.
The Master we revere,Who bled on Calvary,To fill us with heroic cheer,Abides eternally.From His ascended heightsAbove the pain and ruth,To all His servants He delightsTo come in grace and truth.His presence is so dear,His face so brave and fair,That all our heavy burdens hereHe somehow seems to share.Copartner in our work,He every pain beguiles;How can the fear of failure lurkIn that on which He smiles!
Love for Love.
Master, far Thy dear sakeI bear my anguish now,And in Thy blessed cross partakeWhose sign is on my brow.For Thy dear sake I toilWho didst so toil for me;O more than balm, or wine, or oil,The cheer that comes from Thee.For Thy dear sake I liveA servant unto all,And know that Thou wilt surely giveThyself as coronal.For Thy dear sake I watchAnd keep my flag unfurled,Until her golden gleam I catch,Sweet evening of the world.
Conclusion,
True worker with the Lord,He labors not for hire;Co-partner in the sure reward,What can he more desire?Sometimes his eyes are dim,All signs he can not spell;Yet he endures as seeing HimWho is invisible.The work he ought is bliss,The highest thing to crave;And all his life is found in thisMemorial for his grave:A worker with the Lord,He sought no other name,And found therein enough reward,Enough, enough of fame.