The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty that never fails to win respect and love. Her standard was a banner of snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing devotion to the will of G.o.d, to the rights of France and her king. Without a single opposing shot she pa.s.sed under the very battlements of the besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and food for starving people.

It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved children and the wails of heartbroken mothers, stirred them to such a mad frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap of death.

And now the attack was planned and the lines were formed; and then as the crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the French. Broadsword and battle-axe clashed on shield and helmet, while the wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, and once more urged them on. As when the Archangel Michael, leading the heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of h.e.l.l, then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the maid of Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, and Orleans was free and France was safe.

And now her work was done. Would that some kindly voice had bade her now go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she who had raised the siege of Orleans and led the way to Rheims, could not escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne.

Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible, they loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and night.

Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of evidence against her, they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty court of Paris,--a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed through the halls of heaven and made the angels weep; but there was no rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight, against his will, when fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down," and mercy from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to save the maid of Domremy, the saviour of Orleans.

Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the f.a.gots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven.

GENTLE ALICE BROWN.

BY W. S. GILBERT.

[This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.]

It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pa.s.s that way; She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true, That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning pa.s.sed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully a.s.sessed.

"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not, To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?

Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"

The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've a.s.sisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear; It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies; He pa.s.ses by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"

"For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.

Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parent so!

They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors; I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all.

Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown-- To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown he m.u.f.fled up his anger pretty well; He said: "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

YOUNG AMERICA.

The central figure was a bareheaded woman with a broom in her hand. She stood on the back step, and was crying:

"George!"

There was no response, but anybody who had been on the other side of the close-boarded fence at the foot of the garden might have observed two boys intently engaged in building a mud pie.

"That's your mother hollerin' Georgie," said one of the two, placing his eye to a knothole and glancing through to the stoop.

"I don't care," said the other.

"Ain't you going in?"

"No!"

"Georgie!" came another call, short and sharp; "do you hear me?"

There was no answer.

"Where is she now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie.

"On the stoop," replied his friend at the knothole.

"What's she doin'?"

"Ain't doin' nothin'."

"George Augustus!"

Still no answer.