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 hell,
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
fagots 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 pass 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 passed 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 assessed.
"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 assisted 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 passes 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 muffled 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.
"You needn't think you can hide from me, young man, for I can see you, and
if you don't come in here at once, I'll come out there in a way that you'll
know it."
Now this was an eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible as her
eyes would have had to pierce an inch board fence to see Georgie; and even
were this possible, it would have required a glance in that special
direction, and not over the top of a pear tree in an almost opposite way.
Even the boy at the knothole could hardly repress a smile.
"What's she doin' now?" inquired Georgie.
"She stands there yet."
"I won't speak to you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father
will be home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have
done."
Still no answer.
"Ain't you afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from
the knothole to rest it.
"No! she won't tell pa; she never does, she only says it to scare me."
Thus enlightened and reassured, the guard covered the knothole again.
"Ain't you acoming in here, young man?" again demanded the woman, "or do
you want me to come out there to you with a stick? I won't speak to you
again, sir!"
"Is she comin'?" asked the baker.
"No."
"Which way is she lookin'?"
"She's lookin' over in the other yard."
"Do you hear me, I say?" came the call again.
No answer.
"George Augustus! do you hear your mother?"
Still no answer.
"Oh, you just wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he'll make
you hear, I'll warrant ye."
"She's gone in now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his
post.
"All right! take hold of this crust and pull it down on that side, and
that'll be another pie done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus.
SHWATE KITTIE KEHOE.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
Shwate Kittie Kehoe,
Can ye tell, I do' know.
Phwat the mischief's about ye that bothers me so?
For there's that in yer eye.
That I wish I may die
If it doesn't pursue me wherever I go.
Och hone!
Shwate Kitty Kehoe.
It's a livin' disgrace
That yer shwate purty face
Should be dhrivin' me sinses all over the place!
I go this way an' that,
Loike a man fur a hat,
Wid the wind up an alley-way, runnin' a race.
Och hone!
Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Oh! Faith, but I'm sad,
Fur to know that I'm mad,
That only intinsifies all that is bad;
But phwat can I do,
Whin a shwate smile from you
Turns everythin' rosy and makes me sowl glad?
Och hone!
Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Shwate Kittie Kehoe,
I beg of ye, go
To the outermost inds of the earth, I do' know;
If ye'll only do this,
Jist lave me wan kiss,
An' I'll die whin yer sthartin', Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
Och hone! Och hone!
Shwate Kittie Kehoe.
THE COUNTRY'S GREATEST EVIL.
[A short speech by Vice-President Henry Wilson,
delivered at the National Temperance Convention, in
Chicago, June, 1875.]
Forty years of experience and observation have taught me that the greatest
evil of our country, next, at any rate, to the one that has gone down in
fire and blood to rise no more, is the evil of intemperance. Every day's
experience, every hour of reflection, teaches me that it is the duty of
patriotism, the duty of humanity, the duty of Christianity, to live
Christian lives, and to exert temperance influence among the people.
There was a time, when I was younger than I am now, when I hoped to live
long enough to see the cause which my heart loves and my judgment approves
stronger than it is to-day. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that the
present is a rather dark and troubled night for that cause, and it is
because it so seems to me that I believe it to be the duty of every honest,
conscientious, self-sacrificing man of our country to speak and to work for
the cause in every legitimate and proper way. And my reliance for the
advancement of the cause of temperance is the same reliance which I have
for the spread of the Gospel of our Divine Lord and Master.
The heart, the conscience and the reason must be appealed to continually;
and Christian men and women must remember that the heart of Christianity is
temperance. If it costs a sacrifice, give it. What is sacrifice to doing
good and lifting toward heaven our fellow-men? We have got to rely on
appeals and addresses made to the heart of this nation, to the conscience
of the people and the reason of the country. We have got to train up our
children in the cause from infancy. We must teach it in the schools and
everywhere by word, and above all by example; and it seems to me that
Christian ministers, in this dark hour of our country, when they see so
much intemperance, and what looks to some of us like a reaction, should
make the voice of the pulpits of this land heard.
Members of Christian churches should remember that they have something to
do in this cause. If anything stands in the way of Christianity it is the
drunkenness in our land. A word for temperance at this time is the
strongest blow against the kingdom of Satan and for the cause of our Lord
and Master.
Suppose you have been disappointed. Suppose that many of your laws have
failed. We know that we are right. We personally feel and see it. The
evidence is around and about us that we cannot be mistaken in living total
abstinence lives and recommending such a course to our neighbors.
When it costs something to stand by the temperance cause, then is the hour
to stand by it. If I could be heard to-day by the people of the land, by
the patriotic young men of this country, full of life, vigor and hope, I
would say that it is among the first, the highest, and the grandest duties,
which the country, God, and the love of humanity impose, to work for the
cause of _total abstinence_.
I WONDER.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
I wonder if, under the grass-grown sod,
The weary human heart finds rest!
If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to God,
Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast!
Or whether we feel, as we do to-day,
That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway.
I wonder if, after the kiss of death,
The love that was sweet, in days of yore.
Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath,
Or deeper grows than ever before!
I wonder if, there in the great Unknown,
Fond hearts grow weary when left alone!
I think of the daily life I lead,
Its broken dreams and its fitful starts,
The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need,
The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts,
And wonder whether the coming years
Will bring contentment, or toil and tears.
SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY.
[Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of
Virginia, March 23, 1775.]
Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We
are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of
that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise
men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed
to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears,
hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my
part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the
whole truth,--to know the worst, and to provide for it!
I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of
experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And,
judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of
the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with
which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it
that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received?
Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not
yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious
reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which
cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a
work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be
reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love?
Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and
subjugation,--the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen,
sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to
submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has
Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this
accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant
for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and
rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long
forging. And what have we to oppose to them?--Shall we try argument? Sir,
we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to
offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light
of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain.
Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we
find which have not already been exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you,
sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be
done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we
have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before
the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical
hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our
remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our
supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with
contempt, from the foot of the throne.
In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and
reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be
free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for
which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the
noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have
pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest
shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An
appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us!
They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an
adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the
next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British
guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by
irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual
resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom
of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are
not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature
hath placed in our power.
Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a
country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our
enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles
alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and
who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is
not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.
Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it
is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in
submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard
on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat
it, sir, let it come!
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace,
peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale
that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding
arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What
is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace
so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it,
Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give
me liberty, or give me death!
MUTATION.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
Upon the shores of No-man's-land,
I met an angel, one whose wings
Shed beams of light on either hand,
As radiant as the sunrise brings.
And happy souls, with eager tread,
Passed up and down the sandy slope;
"Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said;
She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope."
Along the shores of No-man's-land,
The angel walked, with folded wings,
And shadows fell on every hand,
The burden that the night-wind brings.
With head turned backward, sad and slow
She paced the sands, her eyelids wet,
"Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low,
The angel sighed: "I am Regret."
SIX LOVE LETTERS
"Are there any more of those letters?"
When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond
could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course
burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief.
"Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him,
as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him.
Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her
husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with
her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all
our fault, after all, as much as hers."
"Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond.
"I--no--that is I only--" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla
coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having
been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year.
"It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his
place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutched the little perfumed billet
which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the
others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six
little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his
elbow by his trembling daughter.
"Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I
will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on
any pretence whatever."
Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took
the opportunity of falling into each other's arms.
"It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame
you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of
his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such
letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if
I refused him."
"So does Fred," said Lucilla.
"And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being
beautiful,--I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond.
She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she
placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle,
tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a
Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea
came into Mrs. Richmond's mind.
When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour
arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than
ever. The meal was passed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor,
Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice
of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please."