STORY OF JOAN OF ARC.
“Jeanne d’Arc, known in history as the Maid of Orleans, was born in the pleasant village of Domremi, near the borders of Lorraine. Her parents were peasants, and Jeanne was their fifth child. Her education was very limited, and she spent her early years as a shepherdess.
“Her soul was full of romance and poetic inspiration, and she led a dreamy life among the flocks.
“The neighborhood of Domremi abounded in superstitions. Stories of fairies and demons, beautiful legends of the Virgin, and the mediæval traditions of the saints were the themes of fireside hours, and Jeanne drank deeply into the spirit of these wonderful myths.
“At the age of thirteen, she began to see visions and to dream dreams. She fancied that angel voices whispered in her ear, and that celestial lights flashed before her eyes.
“‘At the age of thirteen,’ she said, in her defence before the judge who condemned her to death, ‘I heard a voice in my father’s garden at Domremi, proceeding from the right on the side of the church, accompanied with a great light. At first I was afraid, but presently found that it was the voice of an angel, who has protected me ever since, who has taught me to conduct myself properly, and to frequent the church. It was Saint Michael.’
“She continued to hear strange voices. Her father said,—
“‘Heed them not, Jeanne, it is but a fancy.’
“In this state of enthusiasm, she passed some five years among the vine-clad hills of Domremi, her heart estranged from worldly affections, and seeking for loving companionship from the beautiful beings that filled her dreams.
“France, at this period, was rent asunder by civil dissension; the people of the interior acknowledging Henry VI. of England as their rightful sovereign, and those of the remoter provinces, Charles VII. of France. The people of Lorraine adhered to the cause of Charles, and Jeanne became a politician in girlhood, and aspired to chivalrous deeds.
“When eighteen years of age, she fancied that celestial voices told her that she was called to deliver her country from English rule, and to place the young French king upon the throne of his fathers.
“Her father said,—
“‘I tell thee, Jeanne, it is a fancy.’
“Leaving her rustic home, the unlettered girl sought an audience of Captain de Baudricourt, who commanded for Charles at Vaucoleurs. In this she was successful, and, although he at first treated her as an idle enthusiast, he was finally so impressed by the recital of her inspirations and visions, that he sent her to Chinon, where Charles held his court, to consult with the king.
JOAN OF ARC RECOGNIZING THE KING.
“‘None in the world,’ she said to Baudricourt, ‘can recover the [!-- original location of 'Joan of Arc recognizing the king' --] [!-- blank page --] kingdom of France, there is no hope but in me.’ She added, ‘I would far rather be spinning beside my poor mother; but I must do this work, because my Lord wills it.’
“‘Who is your lord?’ asked the general.
“‘The Lord God!’
“‘By my faith,’ said Baudricourt, ‘I will take you to the king.’
“She obtained an interview with Charles, whom she claimed to have recognized in a promiscuous company by a sudden inspiration, accompanied by celestial light. The story of her divine appointment deeply moved the king; and, his cause becoming desperate, he accepted the services of the fair prophetess, clad her in armor, and placed her at the head of an army of ten thousand men.
“There was something in her very appearance that inspired awe. Her mien was noble and commanding; her form was tall and elegant. She controlled her charger with wonderful grace and skill. By her side was a consecrated sword, found buried in the old church of St. Catherine de Fierbois, the existence of which she claimed to have discovered by a special revelation from above; and in her hand she carried a banner emblazoned with angels and consecrated to God.
“The English troops, with the French allies of Henry, were besieging Orleans, a famous old city, and one of the strongholds of Charles. Thither Jeanne led her army. She soon inspired her soldiers with the conviction that she held a commission from on high; and, when they arrived before Orleans, they were wrought up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.
“Jeanne attacked the English, and in several engagements displayed superior generalship and won brilliant victories. The confidence of the French troops in her now became implicit, and they received her commands as from a messenger of celestial truth.
“The English soldiers, too, were infected by the superstition, and a panic ensued whenever she appeared. Jeanne was at last completely victorious, and, although once severely wounded, raised the siege of Orleans, and entered the city in triumph.
“The French kings for a long period had received their crowns at Rheims. The city was a great distance from Orleans, and the approaches to it were held by the English. Thither mysterious voices directed Jeanne. Charles, yielding to her influence, set out on the long and perilous journey, to be crowned in the ancient fane where his ancestors of the house of Valois had received their diadems.
“The English troops retired, and the cause of Charles received a new impetus wherever the young prophetess and her army appeared. The journey was a continued triumph for Charles, and when he reached Rheims, the fame of his success rekindled the fires of patriotism in every town and province of France.
“‘It was a joyous day in Rheims of old,’ when the glittering retinue, led by the young king and the peasant child, marched to the thronged cathedral. The coronation services were wonderfully impressive and inconceivably splendid. The holy unction was performed with oil said to have been brought from heaven by a dove, to King Clovis. By the side of the young monarch stood Jeanne in full armor, holding in her hand her consecrated banner. Triumphant music pealed forth, and the plaudits of the people made the old cathedral tremble. When the ceremony was over, Jeanne threw herself at the feet of the king, embraced his knees and wept.
“She felt now that her mission was accomplished. She resolved to return to her home, and to pass her days among the simple peasants of Domremi.
“But fame was too dazzling, and ambition tempted her to new exploits. She was taken prisoner at last by her enemies, the Burgundians, was delivered over to the English, put upon trial as a sorceress, pronounced guilty, and condemned to death.
“She wept over her hard fate. ‘I would rather be beheaded than burned,’ she said, when she reflected on the manner of her death, which was to be burned at the stake. ‘Oh, that this body should be reduced to ashes!’
JOAN OF ARC WOUNDED.
“‘O Rouen, Rouen!’ she said, ‘is it here that I must die? Here shall be my last resting-place.’
“A huge pile of fuel was made in the ancient market place in Rouen, and the Maid of Orleans was placed upon it; and in the presence of a vast concourse of citizens, soldiers and ecclesiastics, she was burned. Her last words were expressive of inward triumph. The lamentable event occurred on the last day of May, 1431. Her ashes were cast into the Seine, and carried to the sea.
“Joan of Arc was no wilful impostor. She fully believed that she beheld faces of departed saints, and heard the voices of beings from the unseen world. The result of her wonderful career was that Charles ultimately won back to the royal house of Valois the whole kingdom of France.
“An imposing mausoleum in the city of Orleans perpetuates her memory; but her name stands above mortality, independent of marble or bronze. Apart from her character as a visionary, Jeanne was a most noble girl. The French still cherish an enthusiastic attachment for her memory, and a yearly fête is given in honor of her deeds in the City of Orleans.”
“I think,” said Tommy Toby, “that I can answer Agnes’s conundrum. Joan of Arc was Maid (made) of Orleans.”
“Right,” said Agnes. “What an agreeable company the Zigzag Club is!”
One afternoon the man on the lookout called the attention of those around him to a distant object: it seemed like a mere speck in the horizon. He presently said,—
“It is a ship.”
The news spread. Every one came upon deck. Even the cooks in the galley left their pots and kettles.
As she drew near, the British ensign was seen fluttering at the stern. As she drew still nearer, she hoisted five small flags.
Then one of the quartermasters on our own ship brought several small flags and a signal-book from the wheel-house. He opened the book to a page of colored pictures of small flags, five of which corresponded to those raised by the ship in view. Opposite each flag was a figure. The figures combined in order made the number 94,362.
The quartermaster turned to another page, and opposite this number appeared the name and port of the ship.
The ship hoisted another set of flags, which was answered by our own ship.
“She asks to know our reckonings,” said the quartermaster.
“Can a ship meeting another ask other questions in this way?” inquired George Howe.
“Oh, yes; two vessels miles apart can carry on a long conversation with each other. Ships have a regular alphabet of signal flags.”
“What are signals of distress?” asked George.
“That flag,” said the quartermaster, pointing to a picture in the book, “means a fire or a leak. (1)
“This means a want of food. (2)
“And that, aground. (3)
“Here is one that signifies, ‘Will you take a letter from me?’” (4)
| Fig. 1. | Fig. 3. |
| Fig. 2. | Fig. 4. |
This dialogue between the two ships was the most pleasing and exciting episode of the voyage, until land began to appear as a dim streak upon the horizon.
CHAPTER V.
THE LAND OF SCOTT AND BURNS.
Glasgow.—Visit to Ayr.—Story of Highland Mary.—Glasgow to Edinburgh.—Scene in Edinburgh at Night.—The Castle.—Melrose.—Long Summer Days.
OLD Glasgow, almost encircled by hills and uplands, presents a picturesque view, as the steamer moves slowly up the narrowing channel of the Clyde. But with its rapid commercial growth, its 2,000,000 spindles, its steam-power, and its busy marts of trade, it is a city of the present rather than the past, and beyond the Knox monument and the Cathedral presents few attractions to the history-loving stranger.
Our tourists stopped at Glasgow to make a day’s excursion to the home of Burns. They were taken from the boat to the Queen’s Hotel in George’s Square; but George Howe and Leander Towle after resting with the rest of the party, secured lodgings in a private house.
The boys arose the next morning, with dreams of the Doon and Ayr. To their disappointment, a heavy mist hung over the city; and they found it a dreary and disappointing walk to the South Side Station, where they were to take the train for Ayr. The two hours’ ride on the train was as colorless; they were whirled through a novel and beautiful summer landscape, but Nature had dropped her sea-curtain and sky-curtain of fog and mist over all.
When the party arrived at Ayr, it was raining. The boys’ faces, too, were cloudy, and each one pressed Master Lewis with the question, “What shall we do?”
Tommy Toby at last answered the rather embarrassing question with, “Let us consult the barometer.”
The barometer, too, wore a cloudy face, and frowned at them, as though it meant never to predict fine weather again.
But, after waiting awhile at the station, there were signs of lifting clouds and clearing skies. A weather-wise old Scotchman promised the party a fair day, and bid them “God speed” for the home of “Robbie Burns.” Presently, the sun began to shoot his lances through the mist, and the tourists set out for their first walk, which was to be a two-mile one, to Burns’s cottage.
BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS.
The cottage was indeed an humble one. It was built by the father of Burns, with his own hands, before his marriage, and originally contained two rooms.
In the interior of the kitchen, a Scotchwoman showed to the party a recess where
“The bard peasant first drew breath.”
The simplicity of the place and its ennobling associations seemed to touch all except Tommy, who remarked to Frank Gray,—
“I was born in a better room than that myself.”
“But I fear you never will be called to sing the songs of a nation.”
“I fear I never shall,” said Tommy, meekly.
From the cottage, the party went to the Burns monument.
From the base of its columns, the beauties of Scottish scenery began to appear.
“It is the way in which one ends life that honors the place of one’s birth,” said Frank to Tommy.
“So I see,” said Tommy, as the sun came out and covered the beautiful monument, and illuminated the record of the poet’s fame.
The tourists, under the direction of a Scottish farmer, whose acquaintance Master Lewis had made, next proceeded to an eminence commanding a view of the mansion house of Coilsfield, the romance-haunting Castle of Montgomery.
“There,” said the Scotchman, “lived Burns’s first sweetheart.”
“Highland Mary?” asked several voices.
“Yes.”
“They were separated by death,” said Master Lewis. “Can you tell us the story?”
“As Mary was expecting soon to be wedded to Burns, she went to visit her kin in Argyleshire. She met Burns for the last time on a Sunday in May. It was a lovely day, and standing one on the one side and one on the other of a small brook, and holding a Bible between them, they promised to be true to each other for ever.
“On the journey, Mary fell sick and died. You have read Burns’s lines ‘To Mary in Heaven’?”
That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace!
Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!
“Do you ever sing the songs of Burns?” asked Master Lewis.
“Would you like to hear me try ‘Highland Mary’?”
“Do!” said Ernest Wynn, who was always affected by ballad music.
The Scotchman quoted a line or two of the poem, changing from the English to the Scottish accent. The boys were charmed with the words, and sat down on the grass to listen to