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shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea—rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny.1 But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of good will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose to a splendour and a noonday prosperity, botli personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a byword among his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah.s The x,oor forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domremy as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs' which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent; no! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was among the strongest pledges for thy truth, that never once —no, not for a moment of weakness—didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honour from man. Coronets for thee! Ob, no! Honours, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domr6my, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the apparitors4 to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will be found en contumaceJ' When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen.t shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life, that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short;

1 The killing of Goliath; t court summoners

/. Samuel, zvll. o A legal term slgnlfy

2 Ocnesi*, illx, 10. ing failure to ap

3 A village near Horn ponr in court.

remy.

t Joan has lately been canonized by the church.

and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long! This pure creature— pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure iu senses more obvious—never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was travelling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end, on every road, pouring into Rouen8 as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there, until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints—these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France, even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France,7 and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew, early at DomrGmy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for Tier.'

Bishop of Beauvais!" thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold—thou upon a down bed. But, for the departing minutes of life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when the gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from i*s struggles, oftentimes the tortured and the torturer have the same truce from carnal torment; both sink together into sleep: together both sometimes kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists were gathering fast upon you two, bishop and shepherd girl—when the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains about you—let us try, through the gigantic glooms, to decipher the flying features of your separate visions.

The shepherd girl that had delivered France —she, from her dungeon, she. from her baiting

«The place of Joan's martyrdom. "The royal device of the fleur-de-lis. »The presiding Judge at Joan's trial. He bad played traitor to the French and abetted the I English in this execution.

at the stake, she, from her duel with fire, as she entered her last dream—saw Domremy, saw the fountain of Doinremy, saw the pomp of forests in which her childhood had wandered. That Kaster festival which man had denied to her languishing heart—that resurrection of springtime, which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from her, hungering after the glorious liberty of forests—were by God given back into her hands as jewels that had been stolen from her by robbers. With those, perhaps (for the minutes of dreams can stretch into ages), was given back to her by God the bliss of childhood. By special privilege for her might be created, in this farewell dream, a second childhood, inno rent as the first; but not, like that, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the rear. This mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was weathered; the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been exacted; the tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to the last. The hatred to herself in all eyes had t-een faced steadily, had been suffered, had been survived. And in her last fight upon the scaffold she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously she had tasted the stings of death. For all, except this comfort from her farewell dream, she had died—died amid the tears of ten thousand enemies—died amid the drums and trumpets of armies—died amid peals redoubling upon |>eals, volleys upon volleys, from the saluting clarions of martyrs.

Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burdened man is in dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes, and because upon that fluctuating mirror—rising (like the mocking mirrors of mirage in Arabian deserts) from the fens of death-—most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which the man has laid in ruins; therefore I know, bishop, that you also, entering your final dream, saw Domremy. That fountain, of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews, nor the holy dawn, could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon its surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated, that hid her face. But, as you draw near, the woman raises her wasted features. Would Domremy know them again for the features of her child? Ah, but you know them, bishop, well!

Oh, mercy! what a groan was that which the servants, waiting outside the bishop's dream at his bedside, heard from his labouring heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not so to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before he dies. In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find a respite? What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there! In glades where only wild deer should run, armies and nations are assembling; towering in the fluctuating crowd are phantoms that belong to departed hours. There is the great English Prince, Regent of France. There is my Lord of Winchester, the princely cardinal, that died and made no sign.0 There is the Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What building is that which hands so rapidly are raising? Is it a martyr's scaffold? Will they burn the child of Domremy a second time? No; it is a tribunal that rises to the clouds; and two nations stand around it, waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of Beauvais sit again upon the judgment-seat, and again number the hours for the innocent? Ah, no! he is the prisoner at the bar. Already all is waiting: the mighty audience is gathered, the Court is hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh, but this is sudden! My Lord, have you no counsel? "Counsel I have none; in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counsellor there is none now that would take a brief from me: all are silent." Is it, indeed, come to this? Alas! the time is short, the tumult is wondrous, the crowd stretches away into infinity; but yet I will search in it for somebody to take your brief; I know of somebody that will be your counsel. Who is this that cometh from Donileiny? Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheimsf10 Who is she that cometh with blackened flesh from walking the furnaces of Rouen? This is she, the shepherd girl, counsellor that had none for herself, whom I choose, bishop.

j for yours. She it is, I engage, that shall take my lord's brief. She it is, bishop, that would plead for you; yes. bishop. «/ic—when heaven

j and earth are silent.

j n Sec Shakespeare's // Urnrii VI.. Ill, III. 10 Joan was present at the coronation of Charles VII. at Ithplms- a coronation made possible I hv her own martial exploits.

THE VICTORIAN AGE

THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881)

From SARTOB BK8ARTUS The Everlastixo Yea. From Hook II, Chapter IX*

"Temptation* in tlie Wilderness! "i exclaims Teufelsdidckh: "Have we not all to lie tried with such? Not so easily can the old Adam, lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. Our Lite is compassed round with Necessity; yet is the meaning of Life itself no other than Freedom, than Voluntary Force; thus have we a warfare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle. For the God-given mandate, Work Hunt in Welldoing, lies mysteriously written, in Promethean- Prophetic Characters, in our hearts; and leaves us no rest, night or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel of Freedom. And as the clay-given mandate, t'.at thou and be filled, at the same time persuasively proclaims itself through every nerve,—must there not be a confusion, a contest, before the better influence can become the upper i

"To me nothing seems more natural than that the Son of Man, when such God-given mandate first prophetically stirs within him, and the Clay must now be vanquished or vanquish,—

i See Luke, iv, 1, 2.

■i The name of Prometheus, the fabled defender of man against Jupiter's tyranny, means "forethought."

» Sai lor Rnartua, or "The Tailor Re-Tailored." Is nominally n work on clothes: In reality, It Is a philosophy, or rather gospel, of life. Carlyle poses as the editor merely, professing to have received the work In manuscript from a certain German Professor "TeufelsdrCckh" of the University of "Weissnlchtwo" (see Etifj. Lit., pp. 3-45-a-lU). In the Second liook he assumes to give the physical and spiritual biography of the author as culled from imaginary "Paper-hags"—bundles of loose documents—derived from the same source. The Professor, afflicted with personal sorrows, and beset by religious and speculative doubts, has set forth on a world-pilgrimage. In his mental struggle he passes from the "Everlasting No," a period of doubt and denial, through the "Centre of Indifference" to the "Everlasting Yea."

should be carried of the spirit into grim Solitudes, and there fronting the Tempter do grimmest battle with him; defiantly setting hint at naught, till he yield and fly. Xante it as we choose: with or without visible Devil, whether in the natural Desert of rocks and sands, or in the populous moral Desert of selfishness and baseness,—to such Temptation are we all called. Unhappy if we are not! Unhappy if we are but Half-men, in whom that divine handwriting has never blazed forth, all-subduing, in true sun-splendour; but quivers dubiously amid meaner lights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under earthly vapours!—Our Wilderness is the wide World in an Atheistic Century; our Forty Days are long years of suffering and fasting: nevertheless, to these also comes an end. Yes, to me also was given, if not Victory, yet the consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to persevere therein while life or faculty is left. To me also, entangled in the enchanted forests, demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after weariest wanderings, to work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes—of that Mountain which has no summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only!"

He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious figure; as figures are, once for all, natural to him: "Has not thy Life been that of most sufficient men (tiichtit/vn Manner) thou hast known in this generation? An outflush of foolish young Enthusiasm, like the first fallow- crop, wherein are as many weeds as valuable herbs: this all parched away, under the Droughts of practical ami spiritual Unbelief, as Disappoint ment, in thought and act, oflen-repeated gave rise to Doubt, and Doubt gradually settled into Denial! If I have had a second-crop, and now t see the perennial greensward, and sit under umbrageous cedars, which defy all Drought I (and Doubt); herein too, be the Heavens I praised, 1 am not without examples, and even I exemplars."

So that, for Teufelsdrockh also, there has been a '' glorious revolution : '' these mail shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted Pilgrimings of his were hut some purifying "Temptation in the Wilderness," before his apostolic work (such as it was) could begin; which Temptation is now happily over, and the Devil once more worsted! Was "that high moment in the Rue de I'Enfer,"3 then, properly, the turning point of the battle; when the Fiend said, Worship »!(', or be lorn in shreds, and was answered valiantly with an A page Satana'*— Singular Teufelsdrbekh, would thou hadst told thy singular story in plain words! But it is fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags, for such. Nothing but innuendoes, figurative crotchets: a typical Shadow, fitfully wavering, prophet ico-satiric; no clear logical Picture. "How paint to the sensual eye," asks he once, "what passes in the Holy-of-Holies of Man's Soul; in what words, known to these profane times, speak even afar off of the unspeakable?" We ask in turn: Why perplex these times, profane as they are, with needless obscurity, by omission and by commission! Not mystical only is our Professor, but whimsical; and involves himself, now more than ever, in eyeliewildering chiaroscuro/' Successive glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our more gifted readers must endeavour to combine for their own behoof.

He says: "The hot Harmattan-wind" had raged itself out: its howl went silent within me; and the long-deafened soul could now hear. 1 paused in my wild wanderings; and sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was as if the hour of change drew nigh. I seemed to surrender, to renounce utterly, and say: Fly, then, false shadows of Hope; I will chase you no more, I will believe you no more. And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care not for you; ye too are all shadows and a lie. Let me rest here: for I am way-weary and life-weary; I will rest here, were it but to die: to die or to live is alike to me; alike insignificant."—And again: "Here, then, as I lay in that Centre of Indifference; cast, doubtless by benignant upper Influence, into a healing sleep, the heavy dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to a new Heaven and a new Earth. The first preliminary moral Act, Annihilation of Self (.Selbst-tddtunt)), had been happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes were now unsealed, and its hands nngyved.''

Might we not also conjecture that the follow

s Described In a previous chapter as a "dirty little" street In the French Capital where fresh courage had suddenly come to him. Tills oassage Ciulylc admitted 'tn he autobiographical, and the street was I.elth Walk. Edinburgh.

i "Get thee hence. Satan." Matthcir. I v. 10. •"• light and shade

o A withering wind of West Africa : here figurative for Doulit.

ing passage refers to his Locality, during this same "healing sleep;" that his Pilgrim-staff lies cast aside here on "the high table-land;" ami indeed that the repose is already taking wholesome effect on him? If it were not that the tone, in some parts, has more of rianey,7 even of levity, than we could have expected! However, in Teufelsdrdckh, there is always the strangest Dualism: light dancing, with guitarmusic, will be going on in the fore-court, while by fits from within comes tlie faint whimpering of woe and wail. We transcribe the piece entire:

"Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent, musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front of the Mountains; over me, as roof, the azure Dome, and around me, for walls, four azure flowing curtains,— namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding. And then to fancy the fair Castles, that stood shel tered in these Mountain hollows; with their green flower lawns, and white dames and damosels, lovely enough: or letter still, the strawroofed Cottages, wherein stood many a Mother baking bread, with her children round her: — all hidden and protectingly folded-up in the valley-folds; yet there and alive, as sure as if I beheld them. Or to see, as well as fancy, the nine Towns and Villages, that lay round my mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal tongue; and, in almost all weather, proclaimed their vitality by repeated Smokeclouds; whereon, as on a culinary horologe, I might read the hour of the day. For it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their husbands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose up into the air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the nine, saying, as plainly as smoke could say: Such and such a meal is getting ready here. Not uninteresting! For you have the whole Borough, with all its lovemakings and scandal mongeries, contentions :md contentments, as in miniature, and could cover it all with your hat.—If. in my wide Wayfarings, I had learneil to look into the business of the World in its details, here perhaps was the place for combining it into general propositions, and deducing inferences therefrom.

"Often also could I see the black Tempest marching in anger through the Distance:

I round some Schreekhom." as yet grim blue.

! would the eddying vapour gather, and there

1 laughing gayety
« "Peak of Terror."

tumultuously eddy, and flow down like :i mad witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished, and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schreckhorn stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had held snow. How thou fcrmentest ami elaboratest in thy great fennenting-vat and laboratory of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature! Or what is Nature? Ha! why do I not name thee God! Art thou not the "Living Garment of God J" O Heavens, is it, in very deed, He then that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?

"Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splendours, of that Truth, and Beginning of Truths, fell mysteriously over my soul. Sweeter than Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Xova Zembla;* ah, like the mother's voice to her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in unknown tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music to my too-exasperated heart, came that Evangel. The Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres: but godlike, and my Father'si

"With other eyes, too, could I now look upon my fellow man; with an infinite Love, an infinite Pity. Poor, wandering, wayward man! Art thou not tried, and beaten with stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether thou bear th« royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; and thy Bed of Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother, my Brother, why cannot I shelter thee in unbosom, and wipe away all tears from thy eyes! —Truly, the din of many-voiced Life, which in this solitude, with the mind's organ, I could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a melting one: like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of Heaven are prayers. The poor Earth, with her poor joys, was now my needy Mother, not my cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad Wants and so mean Endeavours, had become the dearer to me; and even for his sufferings and his sins, I now first named him brother. Thus was 1 standing in the porch of that 'Sanctuary of Sorrow;' by strange, steep ways, had I too been guided thither; ami ere long its sacred gates would open, and the 'Divine Depth of Sorrow' lie disclosed to me."

The Professor says, he here first got eye on the Knot that had been strangling him. and straightway could unfasten it, and was free.

* Carlyle pot the suggestion for his comparison from the journnl of William Barentz. a Dutch navigator who was shipwrecked in the winter of 1596 on these Arctic Islands, where the sun returns only after weeks of darkness. Compare the third note on Addison's paper on "•r.'oznn Words." p. 208.

"A vain interminable controversy," writes he. "touching what is at present called Origin of Evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul, since the beginning of the world; and in every soul, that would pass from idle Suffering into actual Endeavouring, must first be put an end to. The most, in our time, have to go content with a simple, incomplete enough Suppression of this controversy; to a few, some Solution of it is indispensable. In every new era, too. such Solution comes out in different terms; and ever the Solution of the laBt era has become obsolete, and is found unserviceable. For it is man's nature to change his Dialect from century to century; he cannot help it though he would. The authentic Church-Catechism of our present century has not yet fallen into my hands: meanwhile, for my own private behoof. I attempt to elucidate the matter so. Man's Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his Greatness; it is because there is an Infinite in him. which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the Finite. Will the whole Finance Ministers and Upholsterers and Confectioners of modern Europe undertake, in joint-stock company, to make one Shoeblack Happy.' They cannot accomplish it, above an hour or two; for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other than his Stomach: and would require, if you consider it, for his permanent satisfaction and saturation, simply this allotment, no more, and no less: God's infinite Universe altog ther to himself, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every wish as fast as it rose. Oceans of Hochheimer,' a Throat like that of Opliiuchus:^ speak not of them; to the infinite Shoeblack they are as nothing. No sooner is your ocean filled, than he grumbles that it might have been of better vintage. Try him with half of a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he sets to quarrelling with the proprietor of the other half, and declares himself the most maltreated of men.—Always there is a black spot in our sunshine: it is even, as I said, the Shadow of Ourselves.

"But the whim we have of Happiness is somewhat thus. By certain valuations, and averages, of our own striking, we come upon some sort of average terrestrial lot; this we fancy belongs to us by nature, and of indefeasible right. Tt is simple payment of our wages, of our deserts; requires neither thanks nor complaint: only such overplus as there may be do we account Happiness; any deficit again is Misery. Now consider that we have the valuation of our own deserts ourselves, and

i Hock.
See I'u,. Loot, II. TOR.

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