heresy, and at the stake must expiate her crime!

On the morning of the 30th of May 1431, they led her, mounted on a car, to the market-place of Rouen: on the spot where now stands a statue to her memory, they bound her to the stake, and, after a mockery of religious service, they set fire to the pile of faggots; the flames soon enveloped her yielding form, and, while the heroic soul of the patriot Joan of Arc fled to a happier and more congenial sphere, an infuriate rabble trampled upon and dishonoured the ashes of her body.

So undeservedly perished one distinguished among women for pure, lofty, and devoted patriotism.

We cannot for a moment associate imposture with the name of Joan of Arc; her life and character forbid the supposition. She was a devoted enthusiast, warmly imbued with the superstitious religion of her time. She believed herself the chosen instrument of Heaven to punish the English oppressors, and nobly she performed what she believed to be her duty.

But she did more than vanquish the English in the field; she took from them the prestige of constant victory, she took away their great name, and thus rendered them more easily conquered afterwards by the troops of Charles.

As in her life she proved them little better than cowards, so her death exhibited them to the people of France as blood-thirsty, implacable tyrants.

Happily, the English are greatly changed since then; but still the death

of Joan of Arc will ever remain an indelible stigma on the history of the English people. It would seem, also, that, from this date, the English supremacy in France was on the wane ; slowly but surely the French regained their ancient dominions, till at length the empty title of "King of France" alone remained for long years a mocking appendage to the English crown.

The extraordinary life of the Maid of Orleans has naturally been made the subject of several poems, and some by distinguished authors. Voltaire has sneered at her pretensions, and has endeavoured to make the life of the pure and simple maid one ribald jest; Southey has done more justice to her character, but his epic is lamentably prosaic to be the production of such a writer; Schiller has united her inseparably with his powerful genius in the beautiful drama which bears her name; while Shakspeare has given us a vivid picture of her life and achievements in the first part of " Henry VI.," clogged, however, with the inveterate prejudices of his age and country.

Strange that each of the foregoing writers, sublime as was his genius, was compelled to bring down, as it were, the character of Joan of Arc from the pure and exalted position which history has assigned to it, and to endow her with a much larger portion of human frailty than we have any right to charge her with, in order that she might become the subject of his story, the theme of his song.

Beauvais, petitioned to have her tried on the charge of sorcery and witchcraft, "As a disciple and lymbe of the fiende, that used false enchauntments and sorcerie."

The University of Paris was prevailed upon to join in the request, and the bishop the very man who had planned her trial, and already doomed her to a horrible death-was made her judge, along with the chief officer of the Inquisition.

Estivet, her accuser, was the creature and spy of the bishop. Small chance had the unfortunate maid of the slight est mercy, much less of justice, in such a court. While these preliminaries were being settled, she twice attempted to escape from prison, and such unsuccessful endeavours only rendered her confinement the more rigorous. She was taken to Rouen, thrust into a dungeon, her feet confined in the stocks, a massive chain passed round her waist, and three guards stationed in her chamber. A priest named L'Oiseleur, in base furtherance of their designs, entered her prison, called himself her countryman from Lorraine, and a sufferer from his allegiance to her beloved monarch. Under the seal of confession, he won from her several disclosures, and gave her false counsels in return. Thus Joan, betrayed on every side, was at length brought to trial before the court, judges, and doctors of the university, assembled in the castle chapel of Rouen.

Here these wretches endeavoured, by a series of the most subtle questions, to wring from her something that might be construed into a confession of guilt they sought to make her own answers the ground of her condemnation. She was allowed no advocate to defend her cause; yet, after fifteen successive examinations, exposed to all the most trying interrogatories which the malicious ingenuity of her persecutors could invent, Joan stood proudly before them in conscious innocence, while her malignant accusers were abashed and confounded by the force of truth evinced in her simple and straightforward replies. (The records of the trial of Joan of Arc well repay an attentive perusal, if only to show the good sense, discrimination, and shrewdness, by which, in her remarkable answers, this unlettered girl avoided all the pitfalls and snares so

artfully laid to entrap her.) But all did not avail-they pronounced her guilty. They led her forth before the infuriated populace, and caused her to ascend a scaffold, where a preacher named Erard addressed her with the most opprobrious epithets and bitter invectives. He called on her, with ferocious threats, pointing to the public executioner who stood by, to sign a form of abjuration of her heresies.

The noble spirit of the Maid of Orleans, which had stood the shock of so many battles, yielded at last, and, overcome by the terrific menaces of her persecutors, she put her mark to the paper, saying, at the same time, "I would rather sign than burn." Poor Joan! who can blame her?-for, after all, she was but a woman!

But, even yet further was she to be cheated; for, instead of the paper which had been read to her—and which, scarcely comprehending, she had yet been induced only by these extreme measures to subscribe-one was substistuted, and read to the people, containing a far more explicit confession, in which she was made to own the falsehood of all her protestations.

The Bishop of Beauvais then passed sentence upon her, that, "As she had sinned against God and the holy Catholic Church, though by grace and moderation her life was spared, she must pass the rest of it in prison, with the bread of grief and the water of anguish for her food."

These very forms-with which her enemies found it necessary to comply before they could satisfactorily accomplish their object in having her publicly executed-serve only to display in a more disgusting light their horrible malignity. It was usual to give a convicted heretic one chance of repentance and amendment, by remanding to prison. And such a chance they gave to Joan of Arc! She was forbidden, on pain of death, ever again to put on man's apparel; but, while she slept, they removed from her chamber her female clothing, and left by her side the masculine warlike equipments which she had formerly worn. In the morning, a brutal soldier compelled her to rise from her bed, and she was thus obliged to put on the clothing which had been left for her. This was all her inhuman enemies wanted; she had relapsed into

heresy, and at the stake must expiate her crime!

On the morning of the 30th of May 1431, they led her, mounted on a car, to the market-place of Rouen: on the spot where now stands a statue to her memory, they bound her to the stake, and, after a mockery of religious service, they set fire to the pile of faggots; the flames soon enveloped her yielding form, and, while the heroic soul of the patriot Joan of Arc fled to a happier and more congenial sphere, an infuriate rabble trampled upon and dishonoured the ashes of her body.

So undeservedly perished one distinguished among women for pure, lofty, and devoted patriotism.

We cannot for a moment associate imposture with the name of Joan of Arc; her life and character forbid the supposition. She was a devoted enthusiast, warmly imbued with the superstitious religion of her time. She believed herself the chosen instrument of Heaven to punish the English oppressors, and nobly she performed what she believed to be her duty.

But she did more than vanquish the English in the field; she took from them the prestige of constant victory, she took away their great name, and thus rendered them more easily conquered afterwards by the troops of Charles.

As in her life she proved them little better than cowards, so her death exhibited them to the people of France as blood-thirsty, implacable tyrants.

Happily, the English are greatly changed since then; but still the death

of Joan of Arc will ever remain an indelible stigma on the history of the English people. It would seem, also, that, from this date, the English supremacy in France was on the wane ; slowly but surely the French regained their ancient dominions, till at length the empty title of " King of France" alone remained for long years a mocking appendage to the English crown.

The extraordinary life of the Maid of Orleans has naturally been made the subject of several poems, and some by distinguished authors. Voltaire has sneered at her pretensions, and has endeavoured to make the life of the pure and simple maid one ribald jest; Southey has done more justice to her character, but his epic is lamentably prosaic to be the production of such a writer; Schiller has united her inseparably with his powerful genius in the beautiful drama which bears her name; while Shakspeare has given us a vivid picture of her life and achievements in the first part of" Henry VI.,” clogged, however, with the inveterate prejudices of his age and country.

Strange that each of the foregoing writers, sublime as was his genius, was compelled to bring down, as it were, the character of Joan of Arc from the pure and exalted position which history has assigned to it, and to endow her with a much larger portion of human frailty than we have any right to charge her with, in order that she might become the subject of his story, the theme of his song.

WITH an agreeable exterior, with prepossessing manners, witty, lively, and amusing in conversation, Ferdinand, Marquis di Paleotti, soon grew intimate with Henry Oakwood; and constantly in the society of Lucy, as maid of honour, he had many opportunities, none of which he neglected, of paying her those attentions, and showing that deference to her taste and opinions, which every woman delights in, as it flatters her vanity and self-love, and is a homage either to her beauty or her talents. Now, it was a bouquet of rare flowers from the choice collection of some famous Dutch florist, celebrated throughout the world; again, some bird of rare and beautiful plumage, brought from Sumatra by one of the merchant princes of Holland, and which, by Lucy, was usually added to the extensive aviary of the Princess; sometimes, too, in order to divert the thoughts of Mary of Orange from the gloomy anticipations in which she occasionally indulged with regard to the English expedition, he devised excursions down the wild Scheveling coast, a party to the woods, or a visit to the city; and, in all these, Lucy Oakwood ever found him by her side, and herself

LONGFELLOW.

singled out from among the others as the especial object of his admiration. But only as admiration she regarded it, and thought it nothing beyond a passing fancy, a momentary caprice, which she resolved to allow to die away of its own accord a dangerous plan to try with any one, but still more imprudent when we recollect that the Marquis was not twenty, an Italian, passionate, ardent, and revengeful. Each word, each look, each smile of hers but fanned the flame; and the young Italian was now regarded by the court circle as a declared lover of the maid of honour.

And how fared it with Hugo D'Lisle? Rarely joining in the court amusements, seldom at the Palace in the Wood, and gradually withdrawing himself from the festivities in which Lucy mingled, he sought to crush the love which had slowly grown up in his heart, and which, like the misletoe on the rugged oak, was engrafted greenly on his soul, and had cheered his years with its bright and refreshing verdure. Insensibly to himself had this passion stolen upon him. Year after year had he watched, like a father, the ripening of her mind, hour after hour, and day