JOAN D'ARC.

FROM the surging populace of great cities, even from the glittering swarm of palaces, may come military heroes and managers of the state-mere fighters and schemers; but from the thoughtful quiet and sweet shadow of humble rural life come oftenest the leaders and deliverers of the people, and they for whom wait the divine agonies and sombre triumphs of martyrdom. It is by communing with God, more than with man, that they learn the true grandeur of humanity and the sacredness of human liberty. It is by "nourishing a youth sublime" on the simple elements of nature, on the healthful calm of solitude, far away from the belittling follies and degrading passions of the world, that the soul elect to redeem, or to expiate, takes to itself the fiery forces of the hero and the grand sustaining faith of the martyr.

The unobstructed sight of earth and sky-the dewy sweetness and reverent stillness of early dawn-the unveiled glories of midday, the pomp of sunset, the majesty of night-sun and storm, the freedom of winds, the strength of torrents, all minister to them continually, in silent, subtle ways. Even the flowers of the field, brightening lonely places with their prodigal yet beneficent lives, and the trees of the forest, blessing earth with liberal shade,

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and stretching up yearningly toward heaven, are to them types and teachers of the divinest truths and destinies of humanity. From all they behold of the natural world-its marvels, its splendours and delights, they learn reverence for man, for whom God has cared and planned so much, and reverence for God from all things, great or small-from the insect, that flashes into life and dances in the sunshine of a single day, to the planet that for ages of ages has wheeled through the limitless heavens ;-from the firefly, throbbing out his little radiance in the dusky dell, to the great central fountain of light at which the worlds drink.

The chosen of the Lord, the last champion of Freedom, the heroic soul sent to meet some fearful crisis in the life of nations, to lead, save, or avenge the people, is almost always simple, pious and primitive. So was David, the shepherd- king of Israel-so was Wallace, so was Tell, so to a degree was Washington, so was Charlotte Corday, and so, beyond all, was that beautiful marvel of womanhood and sainthood, Joan D'Arc.

The

Nothing could have been lovelier, more sylvan and tranquil than the opening scene in the life-tragedy of La Pucelle. quaint little village of Domrémy, on the Meuse, and near the vast forest of the Vosges-the humble cottage of Jaques D'Arc, a labourer-close on to the dense and fairy-haunted Bois Chénus.

On the May morning when Joan was born-when the fear and the anguish were past, and the peasant-mother slept a sleep that was like a heavenly trance, deep, and sweet, and calm as God's peace, slept, yet felt through all, the new life astir in her bosom, the blind wandering of the soft little hands, the faint breathing of the small, rosy mouth, could she have beheld that form when scarce grown to womanhood, encased in armour-that hand bearing the banner, the sword or the battle-axe-those lips uttering prophecies, rallying-cries, or words of vain defence could the

red lights of battle and of martyrdom have flamed through her dreams, how would she have shrieked herself out of sleep to clasp her baby closer, with tears and wild caresses!

But we may not suppose that any such prophetic intimation of the strange destiny that awaited her child came then or after, to trouble the peace of Isabella D'Arc. The little Joan grew up good and beautiful, modest, devout and obedient, and her parents had doubtless great joy in her, hoping for her length of days, according to the promise peace, the good-will of their little world, and humble happiness.

But this was not to be. Joan came in a troublous time. France, after a mighty struggle, was sinking at last, in the long, unequal contest;-the Lion of England was at her throat-the fierce factions of Burgundians and Armagnacs were rending her limbs apart. War, famine, pestilence, treason, rapine—all imaginable crimes and miseries desolated the land. More groans than prayers ascended to Heaven,-for the gift of life, went up cursesfor the smiling sunshine, the blaze of burning hamlets-for the sweet silent fall of dews, the rank exhalations of blood, crying to God for vengeance. On the throne, a crazed king-Henry of England declared the heir-Charles the Dauphin disinherited and proscribed the English arms overrunning and laying waste the realm, was ever kingdom, or people in a more piteous and humiliating strait?

All classes felt it,-into the most remote and sheltered village came the shame and the sadness, over the sunniest spot hung the shadow of the nation's misfortune. It came even to Domrémy, and lay very dark and heavy on the soul of the little maid Joan. It filled her heart, her young girl's heart, which should have been as full of gladness and music as a nest of singing-birds, with a strange yearning, a vague, but noble melancholy, a divine sorrow,

or as she more simply and grandly expressed it, "the pity for the realm of France." This "pity" left her neither by night nor day. It was with her in her humble domestic labours, in the fields, with her flocks, under the fairies' tree,-in the old oak wood, beside the fountain, before the shrine, in the chapel, and in her little chamber.

Most melodious to her ear and dear to her heart were the chimes of the chapel-bells; but she loved better than these-better than the chanting of holy monks, to hear from her mother's lips the legends of saints and prophetesses-of Miriam, of Judith, of the blessed saints, Catherine and Margaret. As she listened, the flashing of her deep, dark eyes betrayed the fire of zeal and enthusiasm kindled in her soul. She longed to inspire others, or herself to accomplish some noble work for her country and her God. Then she would blush with holy shame at her presumption, and say— "What am I, that I should so aspire!-I who am scarce worthy to pray."

She sought to fuse all her aspirations, her longings, her fears and sorrows and pity into prayer. In all things possible she conformed her outer life to the example of her "brothers and sisters in Paradise "—her inner life was hidden with God. She haunted the chapel and lonely wayside shrines, dropping tears with her beads. Her breath became as incense-her pure body a temple of the Spirit. She vowed herself to holiness, chastity, and the service of the Lord.

Joan was yet a child when she had her first vision. It did not come to her at night, or in the solemn shades of the forest, or dim aisles of the church; but at noontide, on a summer day, in her father's garden. She saw a bright light, and heard a heavenly voice saying, "Joan, be a good girl," little more than that; yet the timid child was frightened, and told no one at the time.

Again and again came the visions, and, at last, she grew famil

iar with her celestial visitors, Michael, and Margaret, and Catherine, and could recognize them by their voices. When they told her to go to the help of her king and country, she answered simply, "I am only a poor peasant girl: I know not how to ride or lead men-at-arms;" but when they clearly directed her to go to the Governor of Vaucouleurs for aid, and promised to befriend and guide her, she bowed her meek head in devout, though tearful resignation to a destiny full of strange terrors, peril and mystery. She left her home, her parents, her brothers, the sisters of her heart, the poor and suffering she had ministered to, the flocks and herds she had tended, the fairies' tree, the fountain, the chapelall the dear places sanctified by her earthly loves and celestial visions, and went before the Governor of Vaucouleurs, a great and terrible personage to her, and calmly proclaimed her sublime mission and her divine appointment.

How the Sire de Baudricourt scoffed at first, and refused all aid-how the people, the common people, always wiser than their rulers, believed; and how the hard scepticism of the rude soldier gave way at last, before the simple eloquence, the holy zeal, the solemn persistency of the inspired peasant girl-how she clad herself in a man's dress for her man's work, and buckled a sword about her slender waist-how she tore herself from the arms of parents and weeping friends-how with a little train of followers, she traversed provinces bristling with the lances of the foe, deserts, forests, and marshes overflowed by wintry floods, we know; but all she suffered, all she sacrificed, the fiery strife that rent her tender heartthe grief, the dread of that parting, the secret shrinking of her modest and sensitive nature from the unmaidenly work to which she was called, we can never know.

Very brightly and serenely she passed through the ordeals that awaited her at Chinon and at Poitiers, undazzled by the pomp and